I hope this is visible. It's not as amazing as it was in real life, but I hope it's kind of evident.  It's a spider's web--a really big one--that I happened to see on a neighbor's lamppost a few days ago. I don't know if I would have seen it if we hadn't passed by at just the moment we did. The sun was setting, so the light caught it just right so that I could see the details of this exquisite (and creepy) web and all the things caught in it. In fact, as I tried to get a good angle, the light dropped enough that I almost lost the chance to get the photo. 

I've been reading a book called Awe. It talks about the benefits of feeling awe, and the ways we might find it in our lives. Some interesting things are that feelings of awe actually improve mood and cognitive abilities! And in some ways, I think having the gospel seems to provide us with more opportunities to see awe--or maybe it's just that we might be more open to it? 

One of the interesting points I found was a reminder that we often are unaware of the things around us that can bring us wonder and awe. That we are lost in thought, have forgotten to look, or are distracted by concerns or devices or whatever. The author pointed out that, for children, everything is new, so they find awe in the world all the time. If we could be like children a bit--sound familiar?--we might also find awe more in our lives. I know that when I go on walks with my grandchildren, they see a million wonders in the world that I might miss. Bugs and cracks in sidewalks that look like rivers. They remind me to be aware and in awe of my surroundings. Awe can be found in human behavior, too: courage or kindness, for example. In music and art. But we have to put ourselves in the positions to find it and then we have to quiet down and look. I want that in my life. I don't want to miss what can bring awe--even if it's a creepy spider's web big enough like it could catch a bird but fragile and delicate and sparkling in the evening light, visible really for only a few moments. How cool is that? 

 It's hard to see in the photo, but I couldn't resist taking a picture: first snow of the season, and someone on campus had made a snowman. It is only a temporary one, as the weather is warming and already tilting him to the side. (In fact, the second I snapped the photo his head rolled off!). But still. It's the first snow and it's a snowman. 

I have always loved snowmen. I have quite a collection in my home--some that stay with us all year round and not just at Christmas. I love Calvin's snowmen. I just get such a kick out of how he uses them to communicate what he really thinks, creating commentary on life as he sees it. 

Once I saw a watercolor of a snowman in a mason jar with a caption: There is no snowman resurrection--Enjoy now. I refused to buy it even though I loved it because whoever had painted it had misspelled "resurrection," and I knew that it would just bother me. But my artist friend knew how much I wanted it, so she made me one. 

So, I wonder if I like snowmen for just that: they are temporary and therefore precious. But, with that thought I realize that everything--everyone--is just that, too: temporary. We are all only here for a short time. People pass through our lives and on, to another place, which means, in some cases, that we will never meet again in this life. With that thought, I realize that I should treat everyone I meet as temporary and precious, as gifts in the moment. It's a kind of grace, I think, that snowmen remind me of. Something I need to remember more often when a driver irritates me or a person in the store is rude. I need to imagine them all as snowmen. Precious. 

Birdsong

 It was quiet on my walk this morning. Peaceful. 

Until I got partway through the walk. I had been aware of the birds--they are always chirping around here. Or honking (in the fall when the geese fly in huge flocks overhead) or cawing (when the black birds harass the deer and geese). But this morning, it began in the quiet way I always pictured when I sang the primary song: 

In the leafy tree tops, the birds sing good morning.

They're first to see the sun, they must tell everyone. 

In the leafy tree tops, the birds sing good morning. 

I was thinking of that song as I walked, listening to the birds chirp and tweet and thinking that I didn't have the leafy trees of the song, but I still had the morning birdsong. Suddenly, the song became a squabble. I don't know what else to call it. The birds were squawking and squeaking. I looked up, but I couldn't see them. There had to be a lot of them, but I could only see one on a rooftop. Then, I found a few in another tree, hidden among the leaves that still clung to the branches. As I looked, I could see a few birds here and there, but nothing to account for the racket. 

In a few minutes, they quieted. Whatever the fuss was, they had, apparently resolved it. I went back to humming my childhood song again as I walked. A soothing start to the day. 

Ice Hills at the Lake

I had heard about the ice piles on Utah Lake, so I thought I would go check them out. They fascinate me! I mean, it's a lake and we aren't even that wintry yet--no snow to speak of, moderate winter temperatures. So how does this happen? How do ice sheets form and collide to build these sculptures? 

I learned on the news later that cold weather (even our mildly cold weather) can form a sheet of ice on the lake. When the wind blows, it can shift the plates of ice, forcing them to crash into each other, building up these piles of ice that look like they should be in the North Sea, not central Utah. 

I love that nature can create interesting outcomes when a particular set of circumstances come together. 

Sometimes nature's combinations can be dangerous: I'm reading a book called Under a Flaming Sky about a wildfire in  Minnesota in 1894, a horrible combination of natural events (wind, temperature, and low humidity) that trapped 2,000 people and killed 400 in 5 hours. The specific conditions combined to create hurricane-force winds and fire tornadoes, even something called gas bubbles that floated and burst over people's heads.  

Sometimes nature's combinations can be beautiful: Raised in Alaska, I was sometimes awakened in the night, bundled in a blanket, and nudged outside to watch the night sky dance with color from the Aurora Borealis. I've looked up what combination creates this beautiful sight: solar winds, charged particles and something called magnetospheric plasma, whatever that is. I don't understand the combination, but I do understand the result--beautiful sky paintings of red and green that captivated me as a child--and still do. 

The ice hills remind me that the world can be a place filled with wonder. They remind me to open my eyes and look around me for those wonderful things. 

Snow-calm

After sitting in conference sessions (good ones!) all day, I needed a walk and fresh air. So, for dinner, I got directions to some restaurants about a half mile from the hotel and headed out.

It felt good to be outside. The sun was going down but it wasn't super cold. The air was refreshing, and I was glad to be outside, even if it was going-home traffic instead of the sounds of nature I enjoy in my walks at home. I walked briskly, checking out two different shopping areas, eventually found a place to eat, and then started back to the hotel after I was done.

By now, it was dark, and as I started walking, snow started falling. At first the snowfall was so light that I almost didn't notice it. A flake here and there finally caught my eye. Then, more and more fell. While I waited for an interminable light to change so that I could cross a wide, busy street, I realized that it was snowing enough that I would be snowy when I got back to the hotel--especially if the light stayed red much longer!

But the light did, eventually, change, and I was able to get to the hotel before the heavy snow came down and turned me into a snow-woman. Still, white flakes were sticking to my black coat, and, staring at them, I realized that I usually don't walk during a snowfall anymore. I have in the past, especially growing up in Alaska, but I can't remember (specifically) the last time I did it. I love to watch the snow falling while I'm warm inside my house. If I am outside, I usually hurry through the snowfall to the car or the house, trying to get out of it as fast as I can.

But tonight it felt very good to be out in the start of a snowfall. I felt like lingering. The world seems to settle and quiet when snow falls--and I felt the same quieting in my soul. The stresses and worries that we call carry around with us seem to melt away when the snow begins to fall. I wonder how the world might be better if we all walked for a few minutes in the quietly falling snow more often.

returning home

I was born and raised in Alaska. My children were all born there. In many ways, Alaska is in my bones and heart and soul. It's usually good to go home, where you feel like you can breathe in what makes you you from birth. It is good to see old friends and people who knew me as I was growing up. To drive the streets that are almost part of my DNA. There's China Garden, still. The Tastee Freeze on the corner by our old house. Still. So much sweet. But this trip was bitter, too.

I went for the funeral of my oldest friend who had died suddenly. We had spoken by phone on the day she died, and she asked me to speak. I said I would, but I struggled all week in coming to terms with her death and the task of talking about her life and the plan of salvation. I had been trying to be more present in my daily activities--and now I was divided: part of me doing what I needed to do but part of me grieving, my chest constantly aching with the pressure of holding in my sorrow.

So, I returned home to send my friend off to another home. We had agreed to attend our high school reunion this coming summer together. Neither of us wanted to go, but we agreed we could go together for mutual support. Now I will attend without her. She has a different reunion to attend.

So much was familiar. The weather was cold--but it had been colder the week before, so the trees were gorgeous, robed in thick fleecy ice, starkly beautiful against the bright blue of the sky. This was my welcome. My breath made clouds every time I breathed, and my nose tickled when I inhaled the cold air: ice crystals forming.

I was driving to visit friends when a large moose walking beside me along the road startled me. This photo of a moose in the airport has to substitute for the one I saw as I couldn't pull off the road to take a photo of the one that was much bigger than this one. No need to take a chance and risk its wrath. Or to identify myself as an outsider. When I mentioned the sighting to my friends, they nonchalantly said a large one had just been in their yard. "They are really around a lot this year with the deeper snow." Oh yeah. I remember that. 

I remember the long days of summer and the long nights of winter, but I found that my inner clock wasn't adjusted to that rhythm anymore. I attended the 9:00 meeting at our old ward building, a building where I taught seminary on early mornings, where we spoke in sacrament meetings, and where our children were blessed. It was 9:00, and this is what it looked like: pitch black as night.

I parked in the hotel lot facing south and was reminded of the sun's rotation in winter: the first shot is the sunrise (about 11:30), the sun just above the horizon in the southeast. The second photo is the sunset (about 4:00, since we are a month past solstice) with the sun just above the horizon in the southwest. The winter sun makes a short arc above the horizon for about 4-5 hours this time of year, and there is the start and end of it. My inner clock felt shaky--what time was it? I never could quite feel it. How much of that was the shifting daylight and how much was the difficult purpose of my visit? I don't know. 

I gave the talk I had to give, aching and hoping it provided comfort to my friend's parents and children, slid my way on icy roads back to the hotel and cried hard alone in my room. Grief is like that, isn't it? Coming and going like tides. Maybe like the days in Alaska--long at times and then short. Ever present and something we get used to until we aren't used to it anymore and it hits us, makes us feel like a stranger in our own home. 

I am home again now. Home to my husband and my life now. Home to remember my friend who returned to her eternal home last week. We will both be home again someday to a place that will feel familiar, I hope, and welcoming. 

snowman service

I was walking across campus yesterday and saw this little guy, looking a little worse for wear because the weather was warming, but still there. Still bringing a smile to my face.

And I needed a smile. Candy passed away over the weekend. My longest friend. And she is gone. And I am grieving and I needed a smile.

Candy was such a great example of service. I asked her once how she could know exactly what a person needed. I can take cookies or soup or bread--but all my service feels generic. Candy's felt specific to the person and to the need at the moment. How did she do that? I think she just lived really close to the spirit, but she was embarrassed, said she didn't know, and changed the subject. I was thinking about this as I walked across campus. And there was this little snowman.

And I thought: someone built this snowman, probably just for fun. They probably had no idea that, even when it was worn and fading and actually not looking so good (one eye gone, dirt sticking to its body), even then it would make someone who needed a lift to smile.

And then I thought: maybe service can be like that, too. Maybe my cookies or soup or bread, as not-so-specific as they may be to the current need, can still lift someone who needs to know they are loved. And in that thought, I felt comfort and peace.

So, the little snowman, as small and fading as he was, taught a good lesson, one I needed. Thank you, whoever made him!

Family

In the week between Christmas and New Year's, I had a good moment, one that doesn't happen all that often: all my children were in the same place at the same time. For about 24 hours, we were in the same city at a family wedding.

The photographer took some pictures of us and then said to be crazy for the next one. I was trying to say, "No! Don't tell this family that!They are already crazy enough!" But it was too late. My kids were already into it and this is the result. I don't know what some of it means, but what I hope it shows is people who like each other and have fun being together.

Being together was a treat; having this reminder of the enjoyment my kids have with each other is a blessing. The best Christmas present of all.

Autumn

Autumn. 
The air chills.  

Leaves turn and fall.
Summer passes.

We celebrate the passing,


Draping mantles in ginger leaves and

Piling tables with golden pumpkins,

Final crops of summer bounty.

Even in autumn, though,
Not everything passes. 

Some things live.

Even thrive. 
Stand out.

And other things sleep, renew.

Resting until spring.

And, as in all nature,

those that sleep and live

Survive with scars.

Scars that show surviving

Despite hardship

Despite pain and grief

Despite loss.

Autumn. 
A season of change. 
A season of surviving.  

First day of school

I love the first day of school. I always have, ever since my own first day of school. (I guess it's a good thing I became a teacher!). I love the anticipation of the day. All the new clothes and binders and paper! I have to say that I was kind of nerdy when I was a girl (probably not a shock to people who know me.) On the first day of seventh grade, I was so excited that I put ALL the notebook paper my mother bought me in my new binder. It was heavy. And when I was standing at the bus stop with all the older kids, who had a few sheets of paper in a folder and looked cool with their light loads, I realized how nerdy my lugging that huge bundle appeared. I removed almost all the paper that night, but there was no way to take back that first impression!

I still love the smell of new pencils--sharpening them renews the smell and makes me feel like writing. As I've gotten older, I've been able to indulge my love of writing utensils. I don't have to use the cheapest (which made sense for my parents when I was growing up). Now I can buy my own--and who knew that pencils and pens made such a difference? There is nothing like a Palomino Blackwing pencil for smoothness. And, although I don't use them anymore, I will never forget the scratchy feel of a fountain pen moving across paper.

So, yes, I am a nerdy teacher who still loves the first day of school. Because of that, I am extra happy when my children start sending first-day-of-school pictures of my grandchildren to me. Look at these cute faces, at the new shoes and combed hair! What's not to love?

 


But I was really tickled by this one of Anya. below. She's not just standing in front of the door--she's jumping for joy! She loves school, and she is excited to be heading back. She lives her life at top speed, putting everything she has into everything she does. What a way to start the school year! I want to emulate her enthusiasm for life. And I want that energy for the start of my own school year. Yes! (Fist pump inserted here.)

night time

A part of me longs to be inside my home when the sun sets and night comes on. A part of me likes the idea of being tucked in, settled down. I like being in the light with the darkness beyond the windows.

But sometimes, I am still at work when night falls. And when I look from my window, I can see the city beyond the practice field and school buildings.

I love the way the lights of the city glitter. I love that being in my office also feels a little like I'm tucked in and the world is "out there." I love looking into the night knowing that I am in the light.

But sometimes I am in a car at night, driving by homes where the people who live there are tucked in and I am the one on the outside, in the night. I am behind the car lights that glitter and flash in windows as we pass. I like the idea of seeing the windows of light, seeing families at a table, talking, or on couches, watching tv. I like to think of them tucked in and glad to be inside during the night. I like to imagine their lives. I always imagine them safe and happy, safe from the dark. Settled.

If I had my wish, I'd be inside, tucked in for the night, eating dinner and reading or watching tv, and imagining that the cars driving by were envying my being the one in the light, out of the night, and settled.

writing in the real world

Gabe's letter to Santa, complaining about his mom

We spent Christmas with our son and his family in Arizona. As part of that visit, I was able to see my grandchildren use writing for meaningful purposes in their lives--and I couldn't have been happier! On Christmas Eve, Tatum (5) wrote a note to Santa's elves. She wanted to make sure they wouldn't eat the gingerbread houses she and Gabe had made. Her note says: Dear elves: Please do not eat our gingerbread houses. I don't want you to eat it so you should not eat it. Love, Tatum. (spelling corrected).
Gabe's was written around the same time, to Santa. I had heard the exchange when he was asking his mom about why Tatum got to stay up as late as he did (he's 10). In exasperation (and humor), she said something like "I must like her more than you." A little while later, the letter pictured above appeared on the counter: Dear Santa, Today my mom told me that she likes Tatum more than me. I really don't think that's fair. I do all kinds of stuff for her. I babysit, do chores, make breakfast, make dinner. I also make my sisters happy. Please write back telling my mom not to have favorites. The good boy, Gabe.
Now, I know that Gabe is secure in his mother's affections, so I can see the humor in the situation. I also think that it's telling that both of these children see writing as a way to make things happen in the world. How cool is that???
As a writing teacher, I had to notice the different argumentative moves made by the two: Tatum was pretty much saying don't do it because I don't want you to do it--assuming that her desires carry weight with the elves, I suppose. Gabe, however, used evidence. He listed all the things he does to be a good, productive member of the family--to have value--and ended with a call to action: a letter back from Santa reprimanding his mother.
I know I love these two kids, so I find everything they do cute. But I also look at this experience from the perspective of someone who writes and who teaches writing and writing teachers. I love that these two see power in writing. And that they turn to writing to accomplish their own purposes. To me, that is the goal of my teaching--to help writers feel that power and that desire. I am not their teachers, but I am a proud grandmother who is glad someone who believes as I do is teaching my grandchildren!

 

Learning to write

I love my grandchildren's writing, especially when they are first learning to write. These are recent pages my daughter sent from our five-year-old grand-daughter, Shannon. She's in kindergarten.
I love the sentiment. I love the images accompanying the text. I even love the misspellings as they are evidence of learning.

I wonder, though, as teachers, when we stop being charmed by evidences of learning, when we stop seeing errors as the writer taking risks and start seeing the errors, instead, as wrong. As mistakes. As bad writing. Could I correct Shannon's spelling? Of course. But why would I? I don't mind that she spells my name with an o at the end instead of an a. I know her. I know that she's thinking of one of the sounds an o can make. (She's kind of a stickler for letters making the sounds she knows and doesn't like it at all when letters make different sounds in some words.)

Loving the notes and letters my grandchildren send me reminds me that we are all learners. Do I sometimes have to hold students to a standard? Yes. But not every time they write. And sometimes, even in polished writing, I should probably look at some of what my students do as risks they have taken, as their attempt to address something I may not understand, as evidence of learning in process. I should think of them as people. If I do that, I take a more human perspective. And, in the end, I might take more risks in my own writing, maybe giving myself the same freedom to take risks and try something that I might not be really good at. I hope so, anyway.

circle of life

Last week four people we knew passed away, relatives and friends. Some of the loss was expected and a blessing for lives in suffering; others were surprises. We were able to attend two funerals and still have one to go to.

During the same week, we also attended a sealing of a young woman we came to know and love after we were assigned to be her home teachers last year. Two days later we (with my parents) were able to seal 56 relatives to our family, extending the connections further.

And then, to top off the week, we had a new addition to our family: a new grand-daughter. What a delight and a blessing. Even though we haven't seen her in person yet, we love her already. Family members texted in the hours before her birth, all joyously awaiting her arrival, reminding me that a baby binds us together in happy ways.

And after a week like this--with all its ups and downs, with its joys and sorrows--I am reminded that this is the stuff of living. Through it all, our family holds. We have the things that matter most: a knowledge of life after this one and the connection of family that extends beyond the doors of death. Blessed!

Flaws and Beauty

Over Thanksgiving we met two of our children (and their families) who live in the southern part of the US and spent the holiday with them on the Gulf Coast, in a town called Navarre. The beach was beautiful--white sand as far as we could see. And, because it was "winter," the beach was pretty much our own. Our condos looked out on the ocean, which was sparkling and clear. From the pier, we could see all the way to the sandy bottom of the water, so we could observe small sharks, stingrays, and the large turtles that flocked the area (probably because of the turtle rescue facility there).

I read a little about the area. It seems that the town was the site for the filming of the second Jaws film. Eerie to think about when we were in the water! But the town--and the beach--had been partially destroyed several times since then by hurricanes. When the hurricanes come, the beach is often erased by the wind and waves. Afterward, new sand is dredged up from under the water and blown onto the beach again. That can explain why it is so white and clean, I suppose. And filled with shells.

In my office, I have a bowl of shells I have collected from beaches I have visited around the world. I can't remember which shell is from which beach anymore, but I put them in a clear bowl to remind me of the beaches I have visited. Favorite memories. On this trip, my grandchildren had collected grocery bags full of shells and laid them out to examine on the deck of the condo. As I looked at them, admiring their beauty, I realized that none of the shells was perfect. Each had a flaw of some sort. I imagined the flaws were the result of some ocean hazard--waves beating them against the sand, currents carrying them against rocks, even sea creatures using and then discarding them. Each mark that made the shell imperfect was the result of a struggle, but each mark, now, on the shore, drying in the sun, made the shells beautiful. Unique. Strong. They had survived intact. As I studied them, I realized that in each case, the beauty of each shell existed in the aspects that might be considered flaws. Just like us: it isn't perfection that makes us special. It is the way we carry our struggles and move on. Smoothing over the broken edges and becoming something else. Something better.

Serendipity

The word "serendipity," I learned, was coined in 1754 in a letter from one author to another, explaining the happy chance of learning something he had wondered about in a book he was reading. When I look up the word online, I find lots of boundaries for it--it can't be looked for, as it is partly related to chance; it isn't planned, but it can occur in the process of a planned event; it is always happy (there is another word for unhappy things that happen randomly; and it isn't just a synonym for chance as there's the happy element to it, too. I guess I would say that being in the right place at the right time to experience something that might not have occurred at another time or place--and that the experience is happy--is a good way to summarize what I read.

This morning I was walking from my car to my office and just happened to spy a hot air balloon flying low over the south end of campus, just above the trees. It had the morning sun shining on it, making it almost sparkle. I grabbed my phone to snap a photo before it was gone.

It looked like it was just sitting there, balancing on the trees. I just had to smile. Big.  

A few weeks ago, my husband and I were running an errand as the sun was setting. I commented on the beauty of the reflected rays of the snow on the mountain tops. I said, "Pull over. Let me take a picture!" He did and I did. I took three, trying to get some trees in the shot to frame the mountain better than in this first shot. But even in the moments spread from the first photo to the third, the sun had changed; the colors were not as spectacular. The moment was gone, almost as fast as I could say how beautiful it was. 

These are truly serendipitous moments, captured because I was in a time and place at just the right moment to see the beauty. I think of all the moments like this in my life--fleeting, happy, beautiful. Sometimes I try to take a mental picture, but they fade. These moments add something to the beauty of my life. In my church, we have a phrase, "tender mercies," to describe the little ways God blesses us that we might not notice if we aren't paying attention. I think these serendipitous moments are tender mercies. Like a genuine smile or a hug from a friend when you're feeling down, they are small in the big picture but oh so meaningful in terms of our spirit. I need to pay attention. I know there are more of them in my life than I remember. And how rich would my life be if I could record and remember them all! 

Fences and Sky

Fences and sky

Boundaries and freedom

Fences stretching to horizon,

Boundaries on what I can do,

Where I can go.

Built tough.

Rough.

By hands meant to tame

Wildness.

Meant to separate

Yours and mine.

Meant to show

What is. 

Beyond the fence is sky.

Possibility.

Open, free, ever-changing.

God’s gift of potentials. 

Fences against sky.

Both frame and free.

Fences leading to sky.

Together: beauty. 

balloons and beauty

We spent Labor Day weekend with our kids and grand-kids in Boise. They have a tradition of going to the balloon festival on Saturday morning. We have tried to go with them before, but the weather didn't cooperate, so the balloons couldn't go up. We wondered about their insistence that we go: we had to get up really early (on a Saturday morning!) to leave the house by 6AM. We stopped and got donuts and milk along the way, but we were at the park just as the sun was coming up. Clouds came and went, but the day was pretty nice (even if a little cool). I have to say, now that I've seen it, I can see why they make the effort. It was amazing. The announcer gives the clearance to inflate, and, suddenly all around us these giant balloons start filling and then rising. We were up close to see them go. And they flew right over our heads, many of them waving, some of them tossing candy from just above us.

Last week I wrote about the glow worm caves. They were something to see! And when I was at the balloon festival, I found myself thinking how beautiful it was--all those varied colors and shapes floating by against the clouds and sky. This time, though, the beauty was man-made, not nature-made. Still, it was breath-taking, and I was reminded that beauty comes in many forms. Now that the leaves are turning, maybe it's time for a trip to the mountains and try nature-made beauty again?

beautiful world

Last week I was in New Zealand. I loved the tour of the Hobbit village--all those colorful round doors! But I can't stop thinking about a tour of Waitomo Caves.

For one thing, they are beautiful caverns. Pink stalactites and stalagmites in graceful swirls in every glance. I kept thinking that it was real. Real. It took millions of years to form. But we could see something like this that Disney had made. It could look exactly the same. But this was real. This was created by the beautiful processes at work in nature, not fabricated by man.

The breathtaking aspect of these caves, though, were the glow worms. Glow worms--yes, like the nursery song--are real! They don't exist in very many places. Lots of caves in New Zealand and Australia, a few in the British Isles, one place each in the US (Alabama), India, Pakistan, and Morocco. Rare!

All glow worms are insects, but they are not all the same. The reason for the glow and the part of the body that makes the glow differs among the different kinds of worms. The ones we saw use the lights to attract bugs to eat. It seems kind of gross, in some ways. And when they showed us the webs that string among the worms, that seemed a little creepy. But when the guide took us in a boat, in a slow river, in the dark, without lights, the view was amazing. Magical. Like something I have never seen before. A night sky filled with millions of stars, so close they feel like they hang in your hair. Something beautiful and odd and wonderful and secret. Lovely.

technology

I caught my grand-daughter with watching a movie on her mom's phone:

I don't know why she decided to watch her movie in such a position, draped up the stairs. It must not have been too uncomfortable, though, because I think she watched two episodes of Bubble Guppies.

I am amazed at little children's attachment to, interest in, and facility with technology. This grand-daughter is 2 years old. But she can use the correct remote to turn on the TV and switch viewing to Netflix or Amazon, depending on what she wants to watch. If she plays with my phone, I have no idea what the settings will be the next time I use it. She found the remote to the digital frame we have; the next thing I knew my son in Boise was calling asking me why I was sending two pictures a minute to his email account. I wasn't doing it. Somehow Tatum had figured out that she could email the photos from the digital frame. Since she doesn't read in the traditional sense, I know she didn't know the email recipient, but still. . . she was doing it.

So, when I think how attached I am to my phone and all it does, and when I think of how fast technology changes, and when I think of all these 2-4 year-olds who use any kind of technology like they were born to do it, I do wonder about the future. If I, who came late to technology, still find it difficult to live without it, what will they do? At least I have meals where I leave the phone somewhere else and look at/talk to the person I am eating with. I see couples at restaurants who never talk because they are both on their phones. I see my own grandchildren texting each other when they are in the same room. Is this our path? Technology has so many benefits. I love it. But I can also see its challenges. I hope little people like Tatum are up to it.