Zelph's Mound from an Ex-Mormon Adventurer

I remember visiting the home of my youth, after several years away due to my mother moving, and myself going off to college. I drove the streets in an odd sort of awe. Everything was so SMALL.

There was the church next door to our house. The brick enclosure around the flagpole, where I had "run away from home" for ten minutes to, in my youth, was tiny - not the elegant, expansive future home where I was certain I could live. The walk to my school was short - not in distance, but in the houses lining the streets themselves. The houses didn't tower over my head like they once did. They were actually pretty modest and small. 

Seeing the past with my new, adult eyes, I realized how my adventurous, poignant, pivotally important youth was, well... really really unexciting. As a child, I saw the bubble of my life as something remarkable and special. As an adult, I saw it for what it was - a neighborhood like any other neighborhood. For children everything is enormous. As an adult I had enough distance from the location to see it for what it really was. 

After visiting Nauvoo, in my last entry, I realized I couldn't get enough of Mormon history sites. There was something fantastic about seeing these sites for myself - tying history together in my mind, and seeing how SMALL it was, in actuality. Hearing stories of miracles and angels and visions and prophets, everything gets so BIG - everything shown at its most flattering angles. Seeing it all for myself as an ex-Mormon adult, I saw it for what it really was. And I wanted more of that.

Enter Zelph's Mound.

The prophet once said that people who have crises of faith are "lazy learners and lax disciples." As one of those "lazy learners," I scoffed at the accusation. Zelph is a prime example of just how "lazy" my learning was - considering that most Mormons don't even know about Zelph.

In June 1834 Zion's Camp was making their way through Illinois, when some of the men came across a Indigenous American burial mound. Heber C Kimball and John Taylor recorded that the mound had three altars, one on top of the other, and that the ground was scattered with human bones. "General" Joseph Smith ordered the men to dig into the mound, and one foot below the surface, they found the bones of a man. (Some reports indicate that the man was 8 or 9 feet tall, given the size of his leg bones, which they took with them... I'm happy to not judge them too harshly on this. It was a different time, but yes. That would be desecration of a grave.) 

They laid the bones out on a board, carefully, and Joseph Smith gave a speech, prophesying that the bones of the man belonged to a Lamanite general named Zelph, who was killed in battle 1500 years prior. More information about Zelph was given. Zelph fought alongside the prophet Onendagus. He was known from the Atlantic to the Rocky Mountains, and was a righteous Lamanite, so his skin was white... O_o 

As someone who studied Book of Mormon archaeology for literal years, trying to make it fit, Zelph was important. Finding Zelph, to me, was additional proof that the Book of Mormon, a literal history, would have taken place in North America, not meso-America. Because of evidences like Zelph, I was happy to call myself a "one hill" girl. (One hill Cumorah - not in the camp that believed there was a Cumorah in upstate New York AND a Cumorah in South America.) The prophet himself had found a Lamanite in the heartland of North America. I read and listened to Wayne May extensively, and subscribed to his theories on the matter.

Obviously, I no longer do. 

But also obviously, I had to see this place. So naturally we drove the hour and a half to walk the short hike with our family, my mother joining us for the trip. 

It was difficult to find. Unlike most Mormon historic sites, which have large signs and plaques, and usually two dozen missionaries, this place had no signs at all. AT ALL. If you didn't know the history before you showed up, you wouldn't have known what you were looking at. The entrance to the trail was marked with overgrown weeds, and a literal tree fallen across the path. 

But we were not to be deterred. I had done my research. There were mounds up there. 

I took the lead, enthusiastically, and stepped face first into a spiderweb. A massive red orb-weaver. After that, we took the trail much more carefully, recognizing that this place was not frequented, and that no previous hikers had cleared the way ahead of us. We each swung large sticks in front of our faces to break any webs that may have been in our path, my brave Australian mother taking the lead. She ain't afraid of no spiders.

The trail was steep, as we needed to climb to the top of the bluff which ran a stone's throw away and alongside the Illinois River. But it was very do-able - entering low muscle-toned five-year-old as exhibit one. Another fact that I appreciated was that the back trail, which we were walking on, circled the mound. With my limited Indigenous American knowledge, I knew that circling sacred sites was a respectful way to approach. And that was something that was important to me - was approaching with respect. 

To our pleasant surprise, the trail led us directly to the top of the mound itself, as it continued it's half circle around. It was shocking to feel the earth under our feet - firm, surprisingly flat, and deliberate. But it wasn't entirely flat. The entire center of the mound had been removed, probably eight feet deep, like some wide volcanic pit in the center. 

(See in the picture, my husband at one end of the mound, blue-shirted son down in the center, and the rest of us up on the other side.) 

Whoever that man was, I doubt he expected the place of his burial to be so thoroughly investigated to the point that it was seriously damaged. 

"Zelph" was a part of the Havana Hopewell culture. The Hopewells traveled extensively, and in future excavations of other mounds in the area, artifacts were discovered from throughout the east. In Zelph's Mound - officially known as the Naples-Russell Mound #8 - an eagle pipe was found. 

The Hopewells were active from 100 BC - 500 AD. (Wayne May would enthusiastically say, "See! The timeline fits!") The Havana Hopewells would eventually go on to form the Mississippian culture, which would build Cahokia, which is a popular tourist destination to this day, with massive, well-preserved and documented mounds just across the river from St. Louis. 

I'm from Utah, and spent my youth exploring petroglyphs with my family throughout the state. But I can honestly say that I am not very familiar with eastern tribes and cultures. I am doing my best, though. Because my heart mourns for these people, and the land that we stole from them. 

Researching their roots, THEIR stories, it is hard to see how few of their traditions and histories remain. I had a HUGE "come to Jesus" when it came to Indigenous American culture, and my own Mormon upbringing, when it came to appropriation. 

Mormons are really bad at appropriating. Just look at how they view Judaism. Mormons assign themselves tribes of Israel in patriarchal blessings. They, like most Christians, take Jewish celebrations and rituals, and assign Christian imagery and theology to them, without consideration for the historical relevance or accuracy involved. 

"Zelph," I believe, was appropriated. White men took another person's life, and made of it something that fit their narrative, and suited their own faith-promoting needs, with no respect to the actual story. 

Indigenous Americans were not white. The Havana Hopewell were NOT white. Whiteness has nothing to do with "righteousness." 

"Onendagus," the prophet warrior that Zelph allegedly fought alongside, is a name more likely ripped off of the actual Onondaga Tribe of New York - which Joseph Smith would have been familiar with. 

Standing at the top of the mound, I tried to pay my respects. Theirs was a story that was lost and exchanged with some white man's telling. I don't know who this man was that was buried, with an arrowhead lodged in his ribcage, but he was respected, and it wasn't because he was a white Lamanite. 

Indigenous Americans have their own cultures, and their own stories. They have their own gods, and their own customs. To me, Joseph Smith's appropriation of Indigenous Americans began with the Book of Mormon. Much of that book is plagiarized from the King James Bible, and, I was surprised to learn, some of the most touching stories of the book were plagiarized from the Indigenous Americans themselves. 

The Onondaga tribe I mentioned earlier are a part of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, which was one of the earliest recorded participatory democracies. (The arrows gripped in the claw of the bald eagle, on our own country's emblem, represent this confederacy of five tribes, and the strength of those tribes when bound together.) Sometime between 1142 and 1450 AD, this Confederacy was formed. The leaders of the five tribes, together, buried their weapons of war, an act memorialized in the sacred Haudenosaunee Wampum belt to this day. 

The story of the people of Ammon, or Anti-Nephi-Lehis burying their weapons of war was one of the most touching stories from the Book of Mormon for me. You can debate which came first - the chicken or the egg, the wampum belt or the Anti-Nephi-Lehis - but for me, it was beautiful to rediscover this favorite story had a basis in reality. And that reality was just as important, if not more important, than the story told to me from the Book of Mormon. 

The Indigenous Americans were not Jewish, as was claimed in the Book or Mormon or the contemporary View of the Hebrews. They were their own people, with their own gods and power. They didn't need prophets like Nephi, or Mormon. They had Handsome Lake, The Peacemaker and Hiawatha, Tenskwatawa, and more. They didn't and don't need someone else's culture or story forced onto them. We should be listening to them telling us their own stories. 

The drive back for home we questioned if the people who lived down the road from this mound knew what they were living next to. Did Mormons journey, like we had, and embarrassingly wax long in telling the locals about the great white Lamanite buried nearby? Do archaeologists widen their eyes in patient, comical disbelief when told about how the Hopewell had swords and horses, and battles in upstate New York with thousands of dead unaccounted for in the historical record? Oh, and they were Jewish. So look for those clues too. But they were pretty Christian Jews, even from the beginning, so look for those clues as well.

It's easier to respect the Indigenous Americans for what and who they are. They are The People. And they have their own stories to tell. 

Zelph!

Nauvoo Through Ex-Mormon Eyes

Having recently moved to Missouri has put my family in prime location for visiting historical sights. Suddenly we're twenty hours closer to everything east of the Mississippi. Chicago? 5 hours. New Orleans? 10 hours. Virginia Beach? 14 hours, but totally more do-able. We're talking a two day trip instead of a week's worth of driving. 

For an ex-Mormon, I've found myself nestled comfortably, living in a spot about halfway between the Garden of Eden and Nauvoo. The area is rich with history - and a lot of it pertaining to my own pioneer roots. I've joked multiple times about petitioning Missouri for that $2,000 my great great great grandfather sued them for, that they've never repaid, back from when they threatened our people with extermination and drove them from the state. 

I've come back, though. Home sweet home.

You can imagine my joy, Sunday morning, when I woke up and was immediately told, by my husband, "We should go to Nauvoo today." I showered and dressed in under ten minutes, and immediately began packing the family bags in giddy excitement, providing no room for my husband to take back his suggestion.

Two and a half hours of driving later, and we arrived. 

Entering Nauvoo, we drove down a stretch of road that bordered the very edge of the Mississippi River. Lillies filled the water for miles, with bright yellow flowers. It was easy to envision the swamp that must have been Nauvoo's edge, back when the Mormons first arrived. Driving into Nauvoo, Joseph's house, itself, was one of the first turn-offs. We took it gladly. 

It being Sunday, we knew that the Community of Christ sites would be closed, but in truth, we didn't care. I wasn't in much of a mood for tour guides showing me fireplaces and coaching me through old timey facts about candle-making. For me, visiting Nauvoo was about putting stories into the streets where they happened. It was about walking the roads, feeling their distances and the air around us. The stories would be supplied by my own years of study. The feelings would be supplied by none other than the buildings and ground itself. 

We arrived at Joseph's house, then quickly moved to visit the Smith family cemetery. 

Sure enough, he was dead. 

Just kidding. But he was.

This was Joseph's FINAL resting place. The dramatic stories of hidden burials and reburial are not often discussed. It was a story of men trying to fight a woman for rights to her dead husband's body. She won, naturally. That's why Joseph is in Nauvoo, and wasn't dragged along to Salt Lake City. Because despite what the mainstream Latter-Day Saint movement would have you believe, Nauvoo isn't THEIRS. It was obvious, visiting Nauvoo with new eyes. Nauvoo was Community of Christ's. Everything that actually mattered to Mormonism's history was theirs. Nauvoo, ultimately, belonged to Emma - the leader, the wife, the mother, the woman who stayed. 

The disparity between men and women was one key component to my leaving the church - wanting more for my daughter. It was reading about Nauvoo and subsequently Salt Lake, and the existence of women trying to thrive within the patriarchal systems set up there. So visiting Nauvoo, for me, involved a lot of mourning for those women, and anger. 

Seeing Joseph's grave, I was surprised to feel that anger. It was sudden, and it was quietly raging. It filled my eyes with tears, and it took a great deal of distracting myself to not grind my teeth, growl, and weep on the spot. I, fortunately, have children, and there was a poopy diaper to change, which was a good distraction - though what to do with said poopy diaper certainly tempted me. But I wouldn't do that to some poor missionary somewhere who would have to clean it up...

I was comforted by some small, generous gesture. Someone had left flowers for Emma. Joseph had nothing, and she had something. It was comforting to me to know that there were still SOME people, the people who cared for her home and grave, that saw her, and knew HER, and what she had endured. Whoever had placed those flowers had honored her before her husband, and to me, that was comforting. 

Next was the mansion house. 

It was harder than I expected, to know a place's history, and be confronted with the location itself. "The Mansion House" is deceiving, given today's mansions. My own house is easily bigger. 

Privacy. So many things happened in this house. So many affairs, and flirtations. So much that was harmful and wrong to so many women. And it was shockingly small. All I could think about was privacy, and the lack of privacy that comes with smaller dwellings. What things would have been obvious, that could more easily be covered up in a twenty-first century mansion? Had I considered privacy before, when I read those stories? 

There was the Red Brick Store. 

We read the story of Martha Brotherton on our drive. Martha was 17 years old when Heber C Kimball, Brigham Young, and Joseph Smith locked her in the top room of the Red Brick Store and tried to convince her to marry Brigham Young on the spot, as his second wife. They chortled with each other about what good men they were. They told her it was "lawful," so don't worry about asking your parents. This smart, smart girl demanded she be given time to think. 

"I will have a kiss, any how." insisted Brigham. 

Naturally, they all denied this happened. They implied that Martha was a skank, obviously. What a little liar. Her family moved to St. Louis. She was married a year later, and had five children. She died at thirty-nine. After her death, Brigham Young had the last word, and had her sealed to him for time and eternity. This girl he had called a liar at the time. But he would have his kiss, any how.

We visited Heber C Kimball's home. We had moved into the mainstream LDS property, now, where things were open. The senior missionary couple at the site were lovely, as they always are. They told about how the Kimballs were only able to live in their home for a few short months before being driven West. They told about how Heber had left his family behind, while they were all sick, as was he, to go serve a mission. They talked about his wife, and about how she was a lovely woman, and a "peacemaker." 

I asked the Elder if the Kimballs home, prior to this one, had been built on the same lot? (Because they'd lived in Nauvoo prior to 1844, I knew, which is when this home had finished construction.) The Elder didn't know, and casually had no more answers to any questions. I wasn't being combative or obvious. We listened to their testimonies and smiled and nodded politely. 

But I still wanted to know, because this Heber C Kimball home was on Partridge Street, and the irony was too much, for me. I wanted to know if Heber had ALWAYS lived on this street - named after the Partridges. Because of Emily. 

Emily Partridge had been propositioned by Joseph Smith, when she was a teenager living in his home with her sister, as her mother was dead and her father was on a mission. She'd told him "No thank you." But spiritual wifery and eternal marriage kept being brought up to her by those "in the know" who were helping Joseph. Eventually, she was convinced to meet with Joseph at Heber C Kimball's home. 

Her story was the final shelf-breaker, for me. See, I was molested when I was a kid. Deep down inside of me, there is some visceral fear response that echoes when things just aren't right. I understand, personally, what it is to be in a position where you are young, weak, and dumb, and someone else is older, smarter, and stronger, and the fear and cognitive dissonance that come when you are made to do something, or be somewhere you don't feel comfortable about, and how that happens, and how you "go along with it," keep quiet, and rewrite the narrative that everything was "normal" and "okay."

Emily approached the Kimball home. The children were playing, and Emily was with them. Heber C Kimball entered the room, and basically told the kids to get lost, outside, and go play somewhere else. Emily got up, as well, and started for home. She knew Heber wasn't "actually" dismissing her, but she left. In writing about the experience later in life, you can hear her fear in her words. She walked fast. Behind her, she could hear Heber trying to call her back, quietly, and secretively, and she pretended she couldn't hear him. She kept walking, and fast. But, she writes, Heber chased after her, and she knew she couldn't get away, so she listened to him, and went back.

She was married to Joseph Smith on the spot.

Learning that story was when I finally allowed myself to label Joseph Smith as a predator. He was a predator. That wasn't the first time, but Emily's words were vivid and relatable to me. And Heber helped him. The street she would have taken that speedy, terrified walk for home on? Partridge Street. 

Heber was so willing to help the Prophet Joseph in attaining his plural wives that he even supplied him with his own 14-year-old daughter, Helen, to marry. Helen wasn't a person to him. She wasn't a little girl who wanted to flirt with the boys her age and go to the dances with her friends. She was a bartering chip to get him in Joseph's favor. And Heber's "peacemaker" wife? She was heartbroken and devastated, and yet, like a good Mormon woman, she did what her husband told her to do. She wasn't a peacemaker. She was a pushover. She, like so many others, was a victim to a church run by men for the men.

Did we go and eventually learn how to make candles? Yes, we did. Because despite having our own religious trauma to work through, we also had a five and six year old, and as good parents, we let them be entertained. (We learned how to spin wool, make rope, make candles, and weave rugs!)

At the Visitor Center I asked for information on where my pioneer family members lived, in Nauvoo. Growing up, the pioneer ancestor we talked about most, as a family, was Freeborn DeMill. (He later settled in Manti, Utah. Over the years we've visited his grave many times. Also, he had several wives, including a 14-year-old girl he married in his 60's or 70's, and had children with...) 

We were told the plot and intersection where Freeborn lived, with his wife Anna Knight, in Nauvoo, and drove out there to check it out. 

It was an RV Park. Handwritten signs and all.

To say I chortled is an understatement. Sorry, grandpappy. I'm no longer one to reverence someone just because I'm related to them or their story. Freeborn was pedophile, and I hope he's proud of his RV Park.

On, on to Carthage! 

Driving into Carthage, my husband asked me, sarcastically, if I could "feel the weight of the journey that Joseph made," to the jail there. "I don't feel sorry for him one bit." I informed my husband. 

The sign as we entered the city pronounced, "Welcome to Carthage - A Proud City." My husband and I laughed at that. "Welcome to Carthage. We're proud of what we've done." "Welcome to Carthage. We killed the bastard." "Welcome to Carthage. You're Welcome." "Welcome to Carthage. We'd do it again."

Welcome to Carthage.

We arrived just in time to use the potty and join the next tour, at the Visitor's Center, for Carthage Jail. A new missionary couple was there, smiling, from Kaysville, watching the older missionaries going through their scripted retelling. But first? A movie!

It was the five minute Jeffrey R Holland talk about The Book of Mormon, asking, in passionate, often heated tones, if a man would give his life for a lie. I held my distracted, happy baby, and bore it. Holland's rings were distracting - large, like a banker's jewels of wealth. I could have quoted this talk from memory. I was there when it was given. Holland's voice had made me tearful at the time. "Yes," I'd thought. "Of course. What a good man Joseph was, and they killed him. It's all true. Laying down his life to the hands of the mob was an act of love and courage."

The actual tour itself began outside, and the guides stuck to their script with exactness. "He was cleared of all charges, in Nauvoo." they explained. Yes, because Joseph Smith had declared himself God King of Nauvoo, so of course he would. "Then he was charged with treason." See God King? 

The careful wording of the story made it so that they could present Joseph as completely guiltless. Anyone who actually knew the true history could see through the precision of their words and find the gaping, misleading errors in their tale. Still, our little family moved as quietly and politely as we could along with the others. (Which was not terribly quiet, as the baby was hungry and the children were maxed out on quietness. That's one thing to be grateful to Mormons for, however. They all smiled and bore the children with extreme love and patience.) 

The mentioned Joseph's friends willingly being jailed along with him. They mentioned the mob that was present for days. They mentioned four friends leaving the jail, then being refused re-admittance. They didn't mention the guns the men had. They didn't mention that Joseph himself had shot and wounded several of the mob members - to the point that John Taylor bragged he had even killed two. It was much easier to play him as the defenseless "lamb to the slaughter," listen to the hymn "A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief," and pretend that Joseph gave his life willingly, and not in a drunken shootout. (Because yes, they were drinking.)

I noticed a change to the official narrative's story from the missionaries, however. John Taylor was no longer shot in the watch, which saved his life. John Taylor fell against the windowsill, was shot in the leg, then rolled under the bed. The watch broke on the windowsill. It was interesting to hear the concession to the ballistics, regarding the watch miracle having been disproved. The watch had been on display in the museum for decades, advertised as a miracle. It was interesting to hear that quietly taken back. 

We left as soon as was appropriate, to run outside and feed the baby on one of the outdoor benches, while the boys gathered acorns and cicada shells. I stepped back to the jail to snap one photo. 

Naturally, tattooed me, was approached. 

I love the missionaries. I love them. This enthusiastic, new missionary from Kaysville, asked me how I'd found the tour. "It was great." I said, thanking him. Not feeling like discussing Mormonism, I redirected, "How thick are the walls, again?"

"Twenty six inches." he confirmed with his wife. 

"That's amazing." I stated. "I just recently found out that a house my family owns, from about the same time period, used to be an old jail! This place reminds me of it, so it's very much confirming that discovery for me!" 

He was amazed, appropriately, and I excused myself to go back to my family. 

The family house that used to be an old jail? It's in Manti Utah. We still own it. Turns out, my great great grandparents were jailers during the Utah Black Hawk Indian Wars. I found it while reading over a biographical piece on my grandmother, which stated she knew the native american language. It was sold as fantastic, and charming, that she would share food with small native children who came to the house to beg, and they were amazed at her speaking to them in their own tongue. Quietly buried in the text was the fact that she knew the language from her time jailing natives in her own home. 

The truth was buried and kept as quiet as it could be. We still walk the walls of that place, Easter in the kitchen with extended family and drive four-wheelers in the yard. Sleeping in front of the heater in the living room, on the black and white, floral, textured rug was always my favorite spot. And I never knew it was a jail. Someone had hung an angry painting of a native american that was given to my grandfather in the room upstairs, and it always gave us kids the creeps. It was more appropriate than we ever could have known.

I don't know why some people prefer to keep the past's secrets. 

On the way home, we stopped in Quincy Illinois to eat dinner and let the kids run around on a playground there. It felt like a humid Ogden. Quincy is also known to Mormons. When driven out of Missouri, the Mormons found friends in the good people of Quincy, who were too happy to condemn the actions of the Missourians. The Mormons talk about that.

They don't talk about the fact that Quincy sent a message to Nauvoo, years later, basically telling them that they should leave Illinois as well. The people of Quincy, when given a taste of the Mormons as neighbors, changed their tune, and decided that Missouri hadn't been wrong, after all.

Telling half-truths isn't telling the truth either.

We talked about morality on the final stretch of the drive home. What makes someone a good person? I love the missionaries, but it felt like they were lying to people - spinning half-truth stories to convince others of some beautiful reality that never existed as they describe it. Are they bad people, for this? Do they not know any better? And if they do?

Sweet Summer Child

It's time. 

My Dear Sweet Summer Child,

You don't know how wonderful you are. 

How I love you. I love everything about you, while simultaneously knowing that you are extremely sad and lonely. That doesn't last forever. 

Child? Drugs. You have depression and anxiety issues. There's no shame in that, and guess what? You can feel five times better than you currently do, and all you have to do is tell your freaking doctor and get on some good medications. That's my first piece of advice for you. For the love of all that is holy, goodness sakes, child, GET ON MEDICATION, and don't you dare stop it! It took you far too long to figure out what "normal" feels like, and I'd like to spare you that. Go get on some medication. Prozac seems to work the best, cause you're also going to end up getting an OCPD diagnosis - SORRY - and Prozac seems to be the best fit for that one. Then, when you're less stuffy and grumpy from OCPD, the Depression/Anxiety stuff settles down even easier. Maybe start with Prozac. Might be really nice for you? Who knows! (Yeah, that's a personality diagnosis I mentioned. Scary stuff, eh? It's not that bad. Don't let "personality disorder" scare you off. You can manage this. Frankly, you already have been, and with some insight, you might even have an easier time of it.) 

But anyway, why am I thinking of you today? 

Facebook Memories.

Understandably, there are several things here we need to talk about. 

Yes, that is a bearded man in the profile picture with you. (That's the first thing you noticed. I know you, friend. You're a little obsessed with getting married. It's the culture, I get that, but take a freaking CHILL PILL.) 

GIRL. That man IS your husband. You've been married for many many years. (I'm not going to tell you how many, because if I did that, you'd do the math, and that would quickly become the worst year of your life as you obsessed with getting married, which is exactly what you're NOT supposed to do, because if you obsess, you might screw it up. The only reason things worked out so well was because your husband was absolutely, 100% a rebound, so your "give a damn" was busted, and you were refreshingly YOURSELF, which is who your husband loved. AWWWWWWW.) Yes, you have kids. Life is good. Each year of marriage is happier than the last, and you can quite assuredly state that your husband is your best friend. 

Second, you're wondering at the name change. Is this an April Fool's Day joke that just hasn't been changed back yet, you wonder? This would be on par for your personality. But no, no it's not. Actually, your plan is to remove "Grace" from the name after a couple more months, as people you know are getting used to the new name. New name? Murphy? So many questions. Why? Who? What? 

Calm down. "Murphy" sparked tremendous joy, and in a few years, a short woman named Marie is going to say, "This sparks joy." and you're going to understand a lot better. That moment will come, and the alarm bell is going to go off in your head, and you're going to remember this letter from future me, and say, "NOOOOOO WAAAAAAAAY." And it will absolutely be "way."

You've never liked your name. Remember when you tried to change your name to "Tarren," but nobody would call you that, because Tarren is not a real name? And then you complained to your mother that she named you "Grace," and that you felt that "Justice" would have been more fitting? You've never liked your name, and as an adult, life happens, and you figure that you might as well change it. And like I said. "Murphy" sparked tremendous joy. 

MURPH. Say it with an ugly face. Laugh. It's awesome. Remember how you get on medication and get over your Depression and Anxiety and you're married to your best friend, and nothing can hurt you anymore? MURPH. This is joy.

So why did THIS post catch my attention, you might be wondering, now. 

That's what I need to talk to you about. 

God is cool. The first bit, where you talked about God? Absolutely great. God loves us. God is absolutely involved in your life! When you're dating your husband, you actually have huge commitment issues, and guess what? God literally tells you in your head that you need to marry him. Out of the blue. No question, God is behind your marriage. 

Because God is behind a lot of things in your life. You're at the university you're at, right now, because God told you to go there. In less than a year, God is also, undeniably, going to give you another direction. I hope you're sitting down, because SURPRISE. You're going to serve a mission. (I know. Bull crap! But really, you are!) You're going to graduate, and then? Toronto Canada. Just like that. You turn down a job offer and everything. You do it, because you know, 100%, that that is what God wants you to do. Because you're REALLY GOOD at listening to God, and frankly, you know it, you cocky devil you. And you do it, because you do EVERYTHING that you're supposed to, because you are an amazing person, and I will never cease to be amazed by your commitment and love for truth.

I heard a bible scholar say, the other day, that "truth," historically, was seen as a path, and not something that could ever have "scientific evidence." "Truth" is a journey, not a certainty. 

You said that you were grateful for the gospel. I am grateful for Christ's teachings, too. Christ taught one message, over and over again. He taught that the Kingdom of God is here. The Kingdom of God is available now. In preparing for your mission, you'll go through the temple, and that will actually be a huge takeaway for you. You "enter the presence of the Lord" today. You can symbolically pass through the veil into God's presence EVERY DAY that you go to the temple. You sit in the "Celestial Room." The Kingdom of God is here and now. "Time" is not the same, for God, and your salvation is to be experienced in the present. Christ taught this.

Unfortunately, your future leads you to different interpretations of "truth," than that which you expressed in my Facebook memories this morning. I know. You just had General Conference, and you were bearing your testimony. I understand that. That's the expectation, and honestly, good things were likely said which resounded and brought you peace. I believe that, and I'm happy that it brought you peace. 

Today, I know that I'm happier than you, though, and I had a glass of wine while preparing dinner, tonight. Chardonnay. You like the after taste. Lambic beer is the best, though. The alcohol content isn't as high, so not as "sharp," and yet it is prepared similar to wine, so it's more fruity than camel pee, dirt tasting traditional beer. Which is garbage. The lemonade stuff is fine. (You spent a lot of money trying out different alcohols to figure out which ones tasted good, so I'll try and save you the money. Do NOT start with Bailey's. Your eyes burned! You're not ready for that, and frankly, you might never be. Heaven knows, I'm not.)

I'm not huge into alcohol. I enjoy a glass while cooking upon occasion. It makes me appreciate food more. It makes me think about taste. I'm not addicted to sugar quite like I was, because my pallet has matured. Today I was also stressing about money issues, and the glass took that edge away. 

I drink coffee every morning - start with a mocha, and heaven knows, do NOT drink coffee without creamer to start with, again, for that immature pallet which is going to tell you that you will die. Coffee is fantastic. You feel healthier drinking that than the Diet Coke which you were previously addicted to, to get through the day. (Drink more water. Do it for your kidneys. I'm begging you.) 

Sweet summer child. I am trying to stand in your shoes in this moment. I have just dropped a bomb on you, and I did it in as shocking a manner as I could, to break the ice. I did it with a smile, and tried to keep it light-hearted, but I know what you're thinking. 

You are rejecting yourself. Future you is weak. Future you somehow got "lost." Future you must be so unhappy. Future you is disappointing you.

Future you only has love for you. I understand you better than you know, and I am in awe of you, not because I think you are better than me, but because I know where you are, why you are there, where you will go, and why you will go there. Because YOU are ME. 

"No." I can hear you say. "No. I will never become you, and make the mistakes you make. I will do better."

I've had that conversation with God several times. On our mission, God told us to go home early. Oh boy, girl, it's uncomfortable, and you just KNOW everybody assumes you sinned. And did you? Girl, you know you. Of COURSE you didn't. But God tells you to go home anyway. 

I wish I could drag you there and sit with you in that moment. It was heart-breaking. I can look back on you, crying as you sit on top of the bed in that Guelph apartment, tears streaming down your face as you beg God to forgive you. For what? Depression? Missing your previous area? It's so sudden, you're not sure, but you just KNOW it's your fault. Why would God tell you to go home early? "I'm sorry." you'll plead. "I can do better!"

But you can't. You, who does everything at 110%, CAN NOT do any better than you already have, and God tells you that you haven't done anything wrong, too. God thinks you're the best thing since sliced bread. God gives you peace, and assures you that this was a part of the plan. God is proud of you! And guess what? You go home, you meet your rebound, and badda bing, badda boom, you're married in less than a year. (DANGIT. I told you I wasn't going to tell you when it would happen. Oh well. Just joke about Ted Bundy. It'll all work out.) 

God is proud of you. And God is proud of me. Nothing has changed for me there. Walking with God is what brings happiness. I agree with you there. We absolutely agree. 

How one walks with God is what we disagree on. 

In your life, and on your mission, you were taught that the gospel was clear. Black and white. There were logical, clear answers to all of it. Everything had an answer and a place. It all fit neatly into its boxes.

Time showed you, however, that that God of Love, you believe in, didn't fit. You trusted what prophets said instead of trusting in Love. You calculated your way through human beings, that you forgot the expansion of loving them. You forgot that Love is the highest law, and you were not alone in that. You were led to believe that there were stipulations to love - conditions to love. Rules, laws, and bounds that regulated the appropriateness of love. That love was something that could and should be experienced the same by everyone - that happiness and peace was "one size fits all." That God would love us and give us peace, all of us identically - with no varying degrees of allowance, or respect for love languages and differing needs.

You trusted men to tell you what was sin, and what was righteousness, without trusting your own heart to tell you. These Facebook memories, I tell you! I swear, I saw a memory that was six years old, the other day, where you went off bearing your testimony about how happy you were to have your family, and that you didn't need to "party" and drink alcohol to find peace. You felt you were so much BETTER than other people, that your beliefs made you different than them - more enlightened. You were so busy judging them that you didn't love them. That you didn't see the love that THEY had, that light that THEY carried, which YOU didn't have. And you didn't have it because you didn't have love.

And that wasn't your fault. You were raised in a system that put limits on love. It put limits on potential. It put limits on you, because you weren't a man. It put limits on your neighbor, because they drank caffeine at a higher temperature than you. It told you to "fit in" rather than to "belong" - to come EXACTLY as you are - right and wrong defined and determined by your own authority, your own heart, and your own soul.

You are good. 

This is the flaw of Christianity. Christianity teaches that mankind is flawed - in need of saving. There is something intrinsically unacceptable about you.  

I reject this. You are beautiful in all your flaws, your weaknesses and imperfections. You don't like your flaws. Why should you be punished twice for something you are not proud of? Mistakes you made because of your mortality, the foibles of biology and psychology, and the complicated mess of intertwining relational cause and effects? You are human, and each step you take towards goodness, towards love, is a walk with God, is entering that kingdom. 

Gordon B Hinckley said that we should have "a love affair" with the scriptures. Remember how right that felt? How passionate that felt? How good? 

What makes us so uncertain about our own unworthiness, that we would assume God does not desire us in that same way? I want to have a love affair with God - not a pleading, begging, domineering relationship. It's never been that way for us, has it? Not when it was right, healthy, good, and we were getting answers. God has always been peace and love. I choose to have a love affair with God. I am of worth, and I am desired by God, as I desire God. 

I don't know what God is, and frankly, I embrace the uncertainty, now. Paternal doesn't feel right. Search out your experiences. Heaven knows. I've already searched them. All we've ever known from God is love. Unconditional love. I'm not sure the details matter.

I chose to make God's love unconditional, by rejecting any voice that made it conditional. God hasn't left. God hasn't warned me, or threatened me, or told me I'm risking hellfire in these decisions. The opposite. I've never felt so free, so at peace, so unburdened by pressure and anxiety. I have been heartbroken, yes. That's mortality, isn't it. But it had nothing to do with God. 

Sweet Summer Child. 

You will eventually journey down the roads I've been on. You'll see what I saw, and wrestle with those issues that I wrestled with. My heart breaks for you, my 110% girl. You will be devastated. But I need you to know that God is not leaving you. God is not bound within the confines of a church, or a set of beliefs. God is in you, and you are worthy. 

You will see God in the eyes of your children. You will see the beauty that is love. So much is uncertain, but with love, nothing else matters. The Kingdom of Heaven is now.

I love you, and you are worthy of every good thing. You are so small, and understand so little, in the scale of things. But look at you! Like an ant carrying several times its weight, your limited understanding only makes your potential for love remarkable. Everything is in its place, as it should be, and I wish you peace. 

Peace is hard to find, but only made harder to find by convincing yourself it is found in wrestling and fighting, not sitting still, and accepting the bounty that is already yours. 

Your life is going to be good. Better than you know. You are smart and capable, and the world is your oyster. Be yourself. YOU are fantastic. 

So Much Love,

Future You

Planets and Plagues

My children are very interested in the Solar System, and the workings of our Universe. In studying the planets with them, I have come to realize that the planets draw symbolic parallels to our own Earth life, and the ills and plagues facing our own futures.

Mercury is primarily made up of metallic substance. The parallel I draw is to our Earth's continued neglect of nature's habitats and continued industralization. Metal and steel, as far as the eye can see, it seems, is the goal of the powers at be.

Venus once had a climate similar to Earth's, but, due to greenhouse effect, the planet has become inhospitable in temperature, with sulfuric acid rains. Our own planet is on a similar course, with the climate change issue neglected and ignored.

Mars has dust storms that can cover continent-sized areas for weeks at a time, and often, spread across the entirety of the planet itself. It is a world overwhelmed by the tell-tale signs of drought and famine, lack of resources globally.

Jupiter's "red spot" is a storm of hurricane proportions that has been brewing in an area twice the size of Earth since it was discovered over 400 years ago. The people on our planet have been at war since before we can remember, fighting and "storming" for generations on end.

Saturn has more moons than science has even been able to confirm - an example of superfluous living, ignoring the lack of others and living with ravenous insatiability - the product of our capitalistic society.

Uranus rotates on its side, out of step with its solar dance partners - caring more for its own individual "rights" to its journey than it cares for its community as a whole. 

Neptune stole its moon, Triton, and in future years hence, will destroy it with its own gravitational force - like Native American land stolen and the inhabitants wiped out in the name of senseless expansion. 

Pluto is roughly the size of the state of Texas. Texas.

Holidays and Belief

 My five-year-old son has been trying to convince me, this week, that Santa Claus is real. 

This is an interesting predicament that most parents likely don't have to deal with. Most parents, in this area, at least, are the ones who tell their children that Santa Claus is real in the first place. Santa Claus is the one who arrives on Christmas Eve and leaves toys under family Christmas trees - not Mom and Dad. 

There are family traditions of visiting Santa at the Mall and getting your photo taken, while you're told to sit on this stranger old man's lap, and spiel the beans on all the neat stuff you want, this year, from him, while he nods, dutifully, and tells you he'll bring you nice toys, but only if you're good. (What even IS good? There's a lot of bratty kids out there I wouldn't label as "good," and I guarantee they get presents "from Santa." Empty threats, people. Empty threats.)

But I don't want to just rant about why I think Christmas is weird. Heaven knows, I've done plenty of that in my time. I want to talk about my five-year-old trying so hard to convince me Santa is real, and why that is the strangest thing to me.

He's in Kindergarten. He's learned the songs. He's taught them to his younger brother! But Santa has never been a part of his life prior to this year. 

In his living memory, this boy has never had a Christmas tree. He's never celebrated anything other than Hanukkah with us, his parents. Our choice to celebrate Hanukkah instead, with our children, was a deliberate choice - one made over the course of years and many, many conversations. In the spirit of full disclosure, we stumbled into Hanukkah on a technicality. We found ourselves in a moral bind over Christmas, and, with obscure family heritage, found a solution to our moral concerns. 

I am grateful to "technically" be Jewish. I was fully raised Mormon, however, and Judaism was never a part of our lives, growing up. To say that I am Jewish feels like a great misdirect, if not an outrageous feint. If you asked me my feelings on the Torah and the Law of Moses, I would confess that pork is absolutely my favorite of the meats. I don't speak an ounce of Hebrew, I didn't circumcise my sons, I've never been anywhere near a Synagogue, and I spent over thirty years of my life praying, "In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen." 

But I wanted to understand that side of my family line. I read books, I celebrated the holidays, and I made that great heritage a matter of prayer. I found many things that I loved. The Old Testament / Torah has always been my favorite book of scripture. I found kindred spirits in those stubborn, religious folks. Frankly, the Old Testament was written by raving Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disordered individuals, and that thing SPEAKS to me. (You mean there's another rule about something, because it's "RIGHT," and if people don't do it, we can judge them for it? Count me in!) The stories were, all of them, lessons of right and wrong. 

But back to the holidays! 

Hanukkah became our family celebration, for the December holidays. Why? Because of my love for Jesus. 

It's deeply ironic, to choose to celebrate a Jewish holiday that has nothing to do with Jesus, because you love Jesus - but so it was. I've had strong feelings about Santa Claus for decades. (My first essay in college was a criticism of celebrating Christmas with Santa Claus. I'm THAT girl!) To me, taking a "Christian" holiday and adulterating it with pagan worship and traditions was immoral. Throwing in a red-suited anti-Christ to distract young, impressionable children who really just want STUFF, was Satan's plan that would cause children to fall prey to consumerism and fall away from their Lord and Savior and the humility of his birth.

Yes, I'm aware that was some intense emotion, and I had it for a very long time, thank you very much. (Remember those OCPD Old Testament writers I love? I'm that girl. Be patient.)

Having children, I felt the double-bind of being unable to celebrate in the way that I felt was appropriate. Extended family, for one, celebrated the "traditional" Christmas, and that wasn't going to change based on Crazy Grace, Who Gets "Like That." The fact that my children would attend school with other kids - always bragging about their presents. "What did you get?" "Nothing. My mom thinks the obsession with consumerism is particularly un-Christian, so we got nothing," was an unacceptable future for my children. I had to give them presents during December. It just had to happen. So how? 

Enter Hanukkah. To me, it felt like a lifeline. Eight days to spread presents out, over. Eight nights with family, celebrating miracles, and frankly, the story of reclaiming that which was holy from the ungodly pagans. (aka - traditional Christmas.) Hanukkah felt fitting, for that reason. I reclaimed "Christmas Day" for Christ, and spread out all the materialism and gift-giving over a calm, family-oriented week, completely separate.

This has worked very well for us. 

BUT...

This year has been my year of religious wrestle. 2021 was the year I resigned my membership from the Mormon church. 2021 was the year I tried out another church - found I loved the people, but the bread and water didn't speak to me anymore, like it once had. 

And so, with that, I wrestled with Jesus. (Isaac wrestled with God. I'm allowed to wrestle with Jesus.) I read his words, I studied him in context, and couldn't shake the fact that offering people his blood to drink was the most unbelievable thing I'd ever given myself permission to consider. This man was a Jew. Why on Earth would he say something so unbelievably un-kosher? There was no symbology I could pull from it, other than to look, quite seriously, at the fact that the Sacrament might have been plagiarized from Mithraism as a conversion tool for Gentiles. 

I concluded Jesus never did that. Through a lot of studying, I concluded it was quite possible Jesus never said or did a lot of things I'd been led my whole life to believe. Did I love the teachings of the Gospels? With all my heart, and I always will, I think. Those words could save the world if we followed them, and the example of that character, Jesus. 

But, ("unfortunately" for some), I no longer believe in the divinity of Jesus Christ. I think, on a technicality, again, that makes me an Ebionite, but again I fail because I'm not a vegetarian, and I'm just the worst Jew, and I don't even believe the Jewish tribes have exclusive access to God, and am I even a Jew, probably not, according to most of my family, and I'm SORRY, Grandma, but the Shamash kept blowing out this year, cause the candles were cheap and the wicks were thread, so I just took the damn lighter to the candles one at a time, and I'm SO SORRY, Grandma! 

Anyway. I no longer believe in the divinity of Jesus - any more than I believe that we are all sons and daughters of God. 

The Nativity.

I don't believe there were three wise men, or Magi in any number. (Zoroastrian priests? Compelling, but no.) I don't believe there were shepherds. Mark says nothing of them, and the Gospel of Mark was the first Gospel written. 

I, personally, believe there was a Jesus. And I believe this Jesus was born to a young, unmarried teenage girl, who would have suffered much, from that life circumstance. "Son of Mary," they called him - a hint at the fact that his father was unknown, and that this man, this Rabbi, Jesus, was a bastard. 

Jesus was a bastard, and he was raised by a woman who would have been marginalized by her society. (Perhaps Joseph, the father, entered the picture and married her, which would have made the situation much easier, and what a merciful, good man he would have been.) But Mary was still known as the unwed mother. "Son of Mary" is as much evidence as any Scarlet Letter would have been, and this, even some thirty years after the fact, was she remembered for.

And who did Jesus serve? The marginalized in his society. The prostitutes. The tax collectors. The leprous. Even if these stories are not true, the symbolism of a boy who grew to protect the marginalized, so very much like his own mother, is astounding. What love is this, that a boy would have seen the wrongs done his mother, while knowing her heart, and inviting all to consider the hearts of those around them, irregardless of whatever labels society may give. 

That was my tangent on why I still love Jesus. 

But I don't believe in the Nativity. 

How does an ex-Christian who still loves Jesus, but no longer feels the moral requirement to defend and honor his "birthday," who has spent some fifteen years avoiding secular Christmas songs like the plague, but now has a holiday soundtrack with lyrics she no longer believes in, who also happens to be Jewish and has celebrated Hanukkah for years, but doesn't feel any real calling to keep up that tradition she was never any good at in the first place and only did it for reasons she no longer views as holy... celebrate winter solstice? 

This has been a very long road, and I bought stockings this year. 

Folks. I bought stockings. 

Because the whole thing just feels so ironically, painfully funny, like shoving candy in socks. 

I think I'm going to buy a tree next year. 

I feel like I'm selling my soul, but for the life of me, I can't figure out who's buying it, why they want it, and who had it in the first place, if not just me and my own pride.

When you learn a new thing, you can move on. You don't have to be embarrassed about your past. It was part of the journey, and it will always be a part of you.

But this year I'm totally going to listen to some of those "sinful" seasonal wintertime secular songs, and I'm going to try not to flinch like I'd taught myself to do for all those years.

Just Deck the Halls. Deck them all!

Experienced Relief

Last night I was too groggy to thank the woman helping me. I heard beeping in my resting chamber. There was light, and multiple people were present. She approached, stopped the beeping, said something, and left. 

I didn't thank her, I thought. 

That's okay, I reassured. You're the queen. 

The resting chamber was my bedchamber, which quickly evolved into a kingly balcony, concourses of presences viewing me, as I was, apparently, the queen, after all. 

And all of this felt rational and normal.

The drug began to clear my system, however, with the IV run out, and the conclusion that I was "the queen" tickled me, as I envisioned myself explaining this conclusion to others, and I "came to" with uncontrolled, quiet giggling. 

The nurses later checked back in, explaining they weren't sure if I was crying or laughing, as both explanations were completely plausible. Just last week, as I was going under, I heard a man in another room yelling in a frightful way. One of the anesthesiologists also told me a story of some blessed idiot who decided to listen to classic rock, while his IV was running, and when ACDC's Highway to Hell came on, he had quite a terrifying trip.

I listen to ocean waves. Sometimes the waves are overwhelming, and become static, but most of the time the waves meld into the flow of the scene just fine. It's far better than "river sounds," which are far too bubbly, for my taste, or simply the sound of the fan next to me, which promptly turned into the sound of upset people who were, naturally, spiraling down the red-lined, vertical tunnel to Hell, alongside me. 

You come to learn that you can change the scenes, and I was fortunate to escape this tunnel to Hell without difficulty - though the rest of the experience was littered with robots, crossing lines of black, red, and purple, with shooting lasers, and general discomfort. That day I was a little too stressed out.

I've been doing IV Ketamine Infusion Therapy. 

I've struggled with Depression since my High School years. For many years I went unmedicated, convinced I could "solve" Depression through sheer force of will. (You can't.) Over the course of many years I tried multiple medications, eventually maxing out the doses as I struggled to find relief. Medications would show some effect, then the effects would wear off. The dose would be raised, I would find positive effects, but then the effects would wear off, in a continuing cycle of maxing out dosages and switching to new medications.

It's called "Treatment Resistant Depression," and I have it. For literal years I've dealt with Depression, and the Oh-So-Helpful, naturally depressing conclusion I repeatedly came to that I might never find relief. I've dealt with guilt regarding my condition - guilt as I'm acutely aware of how Depression affects my mood, and the affects that that depressed mood has on those around me. My Depression makes me "prickly," and I respond sharply and with anger - things that have reared their ugly faces around my closest family members, most of all. I've hated myself, as I've seen myself snap at my children, dwell on the negative with my husband, and cycle endlessly in thoughts of helplessness, despair, and dread. 

Despite feeling able to manage being Depressed on my own, I've been torn with guilt that my Depression inevitably affects the ones I love in terrible ways. They haven't complained. They've been nothing but supportive. I am my harshest critic, but this fact drove me to continue the chase for relief from Depression for years, to no avail, resulting in profound familial guilt and frustration, on my part. 

This last year I began to seriously consider another option - an option advertised to help those suffering with Treatment Resistant Depression, like me. A couple years ago I went to a clinic that advertised offering Ketamine treatments. I sat in a room and interviewed with the director of the clinic, asking him my questions, about the "how"s of the treatment. I left feeling discouraged, however. I blame it entirely upon the decor. Their clinic was in the basement of a dingy multi-office facility, and was decorated with beanbags, colorful tapestries, and a fantastic mural of Ganesh in progress. It felt very "hippie," and while I appreciated the hippie vibe very much on a personal level, it was not what I was looking for in a medical procedure, and made me dubious regarding the efficacy of treatment. I wasn't altogether convinced these people weren't all just tripping for kicks and giggles. The director of the clinic had a bit of an "I've done LSD my whole life, and I can't stop this tremor anymore" vibe, too. Again, kudos for him, but not the treatment option I was looking for, and certainly not from HIM as my doctor.

But this year, a family member underwent Ketamine treatment for Depression, and swore by it, up and down. A friend of theirs had a daughter that went through the treatment, and SHE swore by it, up and down, as well. My family member claimed the treatment raised their baseline. They found themselves smiling more, sleeping better, and better able to cope with the inevitable frustrations of work and life in general. 

So I had my baby and finished that pesky "pregnancy" prohibitor, and signed up for Ketamine Infusion Therapy a couple weeks later. I went to a different clinic, obviously. No Ganesh murals setting me up, thank you very much.

I went to the Utah Ketamine Clinic in American Fork. I am fairly convinced that you will find no better human beings on this planet than those who work at Ketamine clinics. It is fortunate. If you choose a career where you literally have human lives on your hands - not just their lives, but their very psyches, as you're literally inducing dissociative states on these people - it is good to be a good person. The "tone" of an experience is very important, when people are dissociating. I believe these Ketamine employees understand that, and I've never seen one running at less than 100% care and concern, with overwhelming positivity. 

My first experience was touching. The most lovely nurse was taking care of me - my favorite nurse by far. She had a contagious smile. She put in my IV, gave me medication for nausea and dizziness, the anesthesiologist plugged my Ketamine in, turned the lights off, left the room, and away I went, feet up in the soft, sturdy recliner, with my blanket tucked in around me. 

I saw sparks of color on the periphery of my vision, first - gold. My mouth warmed, as the drug filled in my system more, and then? That warm taste in my mouth exploded into a half-mandala, with sharp, pointed edges growing and swirling from the right of my field of vision, in golds, yellows, and whites. Danged, if it wasn't beautiful and weird. But with the warmness in my mouth, the mandala growing in my blurring vision, erasing the room around me as it softly melted down into blackness, I felt a tender moment of love - something my spiritual past experiences would have described as "The Spirit." In that moment I felt an overwhelming warmth of love, and the thought - "You are very brave to do this for your children." I remember feeling a tear falling down my face, which became, instantly, divine. 

I don't know if that feeling or that thought were real or artifically induced, which, frankly, set the tone and question for all my subsequent treatments. 

That first treatment was full of blacks, golds, and comfort. I traveled up a black valley, flew up darkened mountain sides and up past their snow-capped peaks into the dark blue sky, dancing with green aurora borealis. I watched as a godlike figure - yes, it was Sazed from the Mistborn book series - climbed stairs that rose up to meet his feet, flowing in oversized pant legs, on a dazzlingly white, gold, and light orange background - each step slow, smooth, and deliberate.

I morphed into a baby - just like my own newborn. The purring of the IV machine became my cat, and I, my baby lying at its side. I sat and breathed in the calmness of that moment and the realization that my life was very complicated - that things were far bigger than me, and that I was as good as my baby in terms of what I knew and understood and could change, and that I could rest and find peace in that knowledge, or lack thereof. 

My mother, who sat in the room with me, to help me through any first-time potential complications, morphed into Whistler's Mother in her chair, when the IV medication began to wear off. I recognized that she must be incredibly bored, and that alas, that was the role of mothers after all, wasn't it? To be a bored observer? I felt very connected to that message and motivation in that moment, and the urge to find peace in it - peace in boredom, and the steady, calming purr of ignorance and powers beyond my control next to me.

Ketamine turns me into a artist, and every experience I usually have a moment of thinking, "Wow, I wish I could draw this." or "I wonder if anyone has ever tried to draw something like this." It's that wish that I could share it, and that others could understand the intimate, random firings of my brain dissociating. I've had moments where I think I've almost thought of some movie or song that almost captures it, but nothing ever captures it quite right. Though I've tried. 

It's always constant motion. It's waves, it soaring, it's morphing, drawing space out, falling into colors, sights, sounds, textures. Colors and sights are interpreted by your own knowledge, experiences, meandering, and desires, into further movement, color, impressions, and interpretations. 

I've seen God, creating. And I've created. The room has swam around me in sketched blacks and whites, and I've found myself interpreting, "If I come out of this now, will I be an atheist?" The room swirled with greens and golds, architecture, leaves, pillars and stone, and I've found myself interpreting, "If I come out of this now, will I be Hindu?" And it all made perfect sense. I've looked for God in these artificially induced visions and I've found God. I've also looked for God and recognized the biological, physiological randomness of it all instead.

I've questioned and watched the process of the drugs taking my body through these spins and visions. I've also done as John Lennon recommended, to "Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream... That you may see the meaning of within." (Lennon did drugs. He knew what he was talking about! I was happy to take his advice.) The things I dredged up were all things from inside of myself - impressions I already knew, of things already considered, but not quite so vividly or with the exact processes or images. It was all random, very much so, but when experienced, I knew it was all mine. 

So has it helped with my Depression? There have been days where I've doubted it. I'm just as stressed as before. But then, in retrospect, did I really think that Ketamine would change my life situations? I'm still raising three children, one a newborn who doesn't let me sleep and yells at me regularly, one struggling with ADHD who needs frequent reminders and monitoring, and the other with a sassy attitude who likes to "flop" to the ground if I ask him to go anywhere. I have to remind myself that EVERYONE would feel overwhelmed about this, and that being stressed out, frustrated, constantly argued with, and sleep-deprived is not the same thing as being Depressed. 

My Depression has historically taken the light out of my days. I remember once, years ago, recognizing that I knew if my medication was working if I enjoyed listening to music, or caught myself singing. And in the last several weeks, I have caught myself singing. I've found myself smiling. In turning off the light in my boy's room, yet again, I didn't bemoan the messy state of their floor, like I usually would. Instead I noted that it appeared they were making a blanket fort! and I took joy in their spark for life. Just a few days ago I caught myself folding laundry right out of the dryer, without making a "laundry heap" in the hallway, for days on end, as I usually do. For me, that was a big deal. And I was happy while I did it. I made a meal plan for the week, and have stuck with it, without Depression driving me to make excuses for takeout. 

Yesterday and today have been long days. The children all have a cold, and I'm suffering from the slightly nauseated, dizzy remnants of my Ketamine infusion last night. No one is on their best behavior, and there have been several angry, frustrated moments. I questioned, today, if the Ketamine infusions have been worth it, as my final one is tomorrow night, almost $2,000 later. 

Last night was a night of textures and voices. The nurses were chatting with each other in their office across the hall, and the pleasant conversation carried through my visions as inaudible, happy mumbling. I DID hear "No pressure!" to laughter, which set a light-hearted tone. I fell into fabrics, cushioned rooms and cities. I was even carried to my living room's black fur rug, which was scanned foot by foot with calm, soft precision, to the dull, happy mumbling of unseen others. And yes, it was good. 

I pulled the room lengthwise, turning it into white, arched doorways which, when stretched, pulled downwards into a black river, with a head like a lizard. I fell into a rug of ripped fabrics, surprisingly soft, which I floated in, like a seaweed-y river - and I thought to myself, "At least being fat makes me happy and comfortable."

Were my Ketamine infusions worth it? 

I think so. Undoubtedly, time will tell. I have seen results. The nagging question and worry, which experience has trained me to be cynical in, makes me wonder how long it will last. They do have return appointments - only one infusion for follow-ups, not the initial six, which they state work wonderfully. Some people return every few months. Some people never feel the need to return! (The Ketamine MIRACLE?!) 

Time will tell. But I'll take what I can from the experiences. Be bored. Recognize your ignorance and inability to fix everything, and embrace that. Be satisfied with your body. Recognize your potential. Embrace that your type of "goddess" self might not be stereotypically feminine - all the best female gods are gods of war, and there is absolutely comfort and purpose in that. I have the ability to change what is unbearable, but being uncomfortable is not the end. The scene will flow on and turn eventually, and who knows? At the end of it you might even discover that you are the queen!

The Story of Your Birth - Matilda

The decision to have a baby is never made lightly. 

The decision to have a baby in the middle of a global pandemic under the regime of Donald Trump is never made lightly either. 

You will grow up being one of "those" babies - your parents were serious enough about their desire to have you, that they chose to have you despite a world of risks, which they were taking very seriously. 

Despite the fact that babies are beautiful miraculous gifts, I'm pretty sure I didn't come up with any fancy way to tell your dad when I found out I was pregnant. We both knew we were pretty reliable when it came to trying for a baby, by this point, that we kind of figured that once we'd tried, we'd succeed. (Not everyone is so lucky, and we're terribly sorry about that.) I'd thought up cute ways to tell him, when I was pregnant with your brothers. But with you? I'm pretty sure I just told him. Sorry. 

My pregnancy with you was both easy and difficult - difficult due to constant nausea throughout the first trimester, and half of the second trimester as well. I'd never been that nauseated with your brothers. But the pregnancy was easy as there were no complications or anything even remotely eventful. When I finally got an appetite back, I craved Arctic Circle's Country Chicken Sandwiches, which, post pregnancy, I would be happy to never see ever again. 

I'd always assumed you would be a boy - not through any profound "gut" feelings, or experiences, but because I'd already been a "boy mom" for five years, and because your father assured me that girls were rare in his family, and genetically speaking, it's the fathers who get to determine the gender of their babies. On our wedding night, your Grandpa Lisch had even warned your dad, "The Lisch boys are good swimmers!" I'd already mentally prepared myself for a future home packed full of raving wild boys.

So when I went in to your 16 week gender reveal appointment, I was fully ready to be told I was having a third boy. Really, the appointment was just so we could start planning baby names. They laid me down in the the chair, started the ultrasound, when lo and behold, we saw something I had never seen before! It was very exciting to say the least! I cried, and was beyond ecstatic to recognize that I would not be the only girl in my house anymore. But more than that, I was excited to have  daughter, and envisioned a potential future relationship just like the relationship I have with my mom. It was wonderful to imagine that perhaps I was carrying a future best friend. 

In the most recent few years, my Jewish heritage has also been something that I have longed to learn more about and participate in. Having a daughter was a beautiful blessing in that regard, as she, too, would give birth to baby Jews, and that my carrying on some Jewish Traditions would not have to die with me, necessarily. I would have a daughter who could carry those traditions on with her children as well. (Only if she wants to, mind!)

Knowing that I was having a girl changed everything! I was no longer a confident mother. I was now a terrified mother. Despite the fact that all babies are pretty much the same, I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I could be capable of raising a girl! I think I was thinking too far ahead! But despite the surprise gender, the pregnancy carried on.

When it came to picking your name, your dad and I couldn't agree on anything. We had completely opposite tastes in names. After what FELT like months of deliberation, we decided that they only way you were going to get a name was if we divided and conquered. I chose your first name, and your dad chose your middle name. To me, Matilda felt like a strong, confident name, that could be as tomboy or girly as you wished. It felt beautiful and versatile. I loved the Dahl book, Matilda, and having two Australian grandmothers, it seemed only right that I could rock you to sleep with the lovely ballad of Waltzing Matilda. To me, your name was perfect. (I also seriously considered Madeline and Deborah (from the Bible,) but Matilda won out fairly quickly.)

The last month of my pregnancy dragged on. I had told the midwife on multiple occasions that I would be having the baby early. "I tend to have my babies early," I said confidently, as if two previous babies were enough to know. And so every day for about three weeks I was vigilant and ready for your imminent arrival. And then you never came. It was stressful to have rides constantly planned out, plans for your brothers, who would be watching them, etc. 

Because your birth would be a little bit different than theirs. I will preface by saying that your dad is a good man. He loves his family, and would do anything for them. Unfortunately, your dad also doesn't do well with blood and high-stress situations, in terms of being empathetic and present. This has nothing to do with his ability to love his family, but more to do with poor coping mechanisms in regards to stress situations. Having dragged your dad through two previous births, I felt confident enough in myself and my ability to give birth without dying, that I was open to the idea of letting Dad off the hook, and getting myself a confident, calm support person in the delivery room. The fact that you were a girl made that decision more naturally for me, as I psyched myself up for a traditional “women's work” birth.

My mom was an obvious first choice for me to have in the delivery room. After discussing that possibility with your dad, who was not offended in the slightest at the suggestion that I could do this without him, we approached your grandma with the question of if she would be willing to be present for the blood, the nudity, the screams, the needles, the beeping machines, etc. She was happy to tell us that in her former life in Australia she had been present for MANY births, and that she was, in fact, a professional at being just that sort of support person in the delivery room. (It was part of her job, in fact!)

So as the days drew nearer, we were balancing school schedules, and trying to psych ourselves into giving birth on a weekend day, or another day that wouldn't be so inconvenient for Grandma to drive the sometimes hour long drive to get to the hospital to be with me. We had a couple false alarms. I have always had an irritable uterus, which means regular Braxton Hicks throughout my entire pregnancies, but most especially when you really want to give birth, and so you start timing them. It is as if timing the hicks makes them come regularly at three to four minute intervals. Obviously, I absolutely hate not knowing when babies are coming.

Your grandma sat at the hospital with me for the first false alarm, two weeks before you were born, and I called her off a week later before she got to the hospital the second false alarm. She comforted me with the assurance that you would be, in fact, the last grandchild, and she never had to deal with false alarms again! A few days after the second false alarm, my midwife stripped my membranes, in the hopes that it would get things moving, but it did the opposite. My irritable Braxton Hicks stopped being so irritable and regular! It was a relief, at least, that it didn't make things worse!

The next week the midwife stripped my membranes again, and we made an appointment for the following morning for her to strip them a third time! I was dilated to almost a four, and my cervix was absolutely ready. The midwife agreed that my body was embarrassingly ready to give birth, and I should have done it the week before! But the second time stripping my membranes was the charm, however. That afternoon, while Julian was at Kindergarten, I took Dexter for a walk to pick up garbage along the street, came back home, picked up Julian from school, and was having regular contractions by dinner time. I called your grandma, told her I was about "Defcon Orange?" sure that you were coming, and told her I would feel tremendously guilty if she drove all the way to our house if you didn't, in fact, come.

She sat with me on the couch after your brothers were put to bed, and we continued to time contractions together, while she smiled comfortingly and knowingly at me, telling me we should drive to the hospital while I told her I wasn't sure enough, yet, that this was the real deal. After about an hour, things were starting to hurt enough that I was confident, so away we ran to the hospital. We checked in around 9 pm, and immediately were given a room. I don't know how the Labor and Delivery nurses know when someone is, in fact, in real labor, but they knew. They knew that the false alarms were false alarms, and they knew a real contracting woman when they saw one. I had dilated to a five, and things were progressing.

Getting an epidural with your brother Dexter was easily the worst pain I have been in in my entire life. It was so much pain, that I was seriously considering giving birth to you naturally, without pain relief. I was terrified! But after months of deliberation, I'd concluded that ten minutes of pain had nothing on potential hours worth of labor and then birth, and that I could do another epidural.

Your Grandma held my hand while I shook like a leaf. It was very comforting, especially when I realized that THIS anesthesiologist wasn't going about the epidural with the intensity of performing a root canal, like I'd experienced with the last one, so I was able to calm down. Even then, he nearly called for his supervisor, as he struggled to get the epidural in place, until I assured him it felt like it was going in straight, not to the right or left, so he gave it one last attempt, and it worked beautifully. And Grandma didn't even faint or look the least bit pale!

Grandma read to me for a couple hours and we chatted as casually as ever, while I continued to labor in perfect comfort. (Epidural was the right choice!) The midwife came and broke my water - she literally leaned back squinting and flinching, which was funny to me. (Gross.)

As the next couple hours passed, the nurses informed me that it was up to me to let them know when my numbed body was ready to push. (I have always found this odd. Sure, you feel pressure and things, with an epidural, but no real guttural "push" urge.) Subsequently, I had the nurse keep tabs on the "readiness" factor fairly regularly for the last thirty minutes, as I wasn't sure and didn't want to miss anything! I'd popped your brother out in one contraction last time, and didn't want to make your Grandma catch. Though obviously we joked about it, and she, in all seriousness, told me it wouldn't be a problem. Part of me still wonders if she hoped she couldn't get her hands a little dirty and catch a grandbaby!

She didn't have to, as the nurses knew what they were doing. The midwife came in with her trainee, and the trainee delivered you, at nearly seven months pregnant herself! I had you out in three contractions, and you came out perfect at 12:01 am, 6 pounds 10 ounces, 19 inches long.

You cried the right amount, and calmed right down when I held you and started talking to you. After everything settled down in the delivery room, Grandma excused herself to go home and sleep, and I was wheeled up to our Mom/Baby room. While wheeling along being pushed in the wheelchair, your eyes were open wide, taking in all the new sights, and I was in love. You were SO interested and satisfied!

You got hypothermia after an hour, but after being on the warmer, you leveled out just right. That first day, during daylight hours, you also took an eleven hour hunger strike, which my favorite nurse smiled and calmly assured me, "She's not hungry. She was right there with you, with that birth, and some kids just AREN'T HUNGRY for a bit. She'll be fine."

And you were. Of course. We later learned that you were a little connoisseur when it came to formula. I'm fairly confident that you ate so poorly at the hospital because the formula came room temperature. Once you got home, you learned to gag at anything less than optimal temperature, and demanded WARM formula from thenceforth. 

And you SMILED. I'd never had a baby just SMILE. Sometimes babies will smile while pooping, or farting, and parents are thrilled that they caught a smile, but yours weren't fake smiles. They were genuine, REAL smiles, right out the gate from Day One. You loved looking at me, and you loved getting your head stroked - something Grandma figured out!

When it came time to take you home, obviously, we were nervous about your reception, but both of your brothers were ecstatic. Dexter immediately ran to find you a toy, and Julian followed us around closely, desperate just to TOUCH you, and know that you were real! He'd been waiting for WEEKS, right along with the rest of us, for HIS baby to come. 

We had to be very careful that their sheer excitement didn't crush you to death! There was a lot of love! And still is, now, as I'm writing this! You're one month old, now. This morning I set you on the shag rug, desperate to wash dishes, and your brothers, unprompted, ran over to keep you company - to show you your toy, and help you play with it. You were more interested in them! 

Julian is always grabbing your hand, even when you're asleep, so that we have to tell him to stop! Dexter prefers to kiss the top of your head, and he doesn't necessarily do it softly! 

I was crazy, the first week, worrying about how small you were, worrying if you were eating enough, worrying about if you were pooping enough, and all the things you worry about, with a brand new baby. You were my smallest baby, by a sizeable amount, and I was scared. 

Not so much now, one month in. You're good at eating, though you're still small - still wearing NEWBORN size clothes, which never would have happened one month in, with your brothers. But you'll probably size out of those in the next day or two, so you're catching up. 

You've been easy, baby, and it's a welcome blessing! Your quick smiles are an absolute treasure! I hope you never lose that! You're a beauty. You are smart and you are good. The prospect of raising someone who quite literally can be a "mini me" is thrilling. I hope you take the good, and leave the bad. I hope you take strength of will and character. Be a force of nature. So help me, take after your mother and lock the kids out of the school building at recess because it's "right!" Be brave, be confident, and stand up for yourself and what's good. Defend others. But don't take everything. I'll do my best to give you the good, and not the bad. Because you are perfect, just the way you are. You fill my heart with a fierce Momma Bear pride. 

I will always be fiercely proud to say that you are mine!