Heidi Beth

From the day after I turned 17 I waited tables, up until Devyn joined our family. I tried a few other things, but always went back to the fun of visiting a few minutes here and there with regulars, cheap meals, decent money and exercise, serving people plates of food, bowls of soup and whatever they chose to drink.
Among the few other things was door to door sales from business to business. Believe it or not, I made enough money this way, but the schedule and morning office pep talks finally wore me out. I was working 60 to 80 hours a week in 5 days. And the morning pep talks seemed to me about disrespecting the customer sweetly to make a sale. Not that they asked us to go against anyone’s wishes, just an attitude I sensed.
I enjoyed the job when I was out there, walking around, visiting with people. I had high sales for our office. After a month or two I could do a days work in half the day, so I spent much time visiting with customers, sharing life stories or hanging out with my mom or dad by going to their towns to sell. At the time my dad lived 3 hours in one direction and my mom lived 2 1/2 hours in a different direction. One time my mom came with to see exactly what I did. I enjoyed having her with me.
What exactly I did was carry a big black duffel bag full of items, like calculators, games, planners etc. We were able to sell them much less than the stores because we were the stores…a pretty cheap work force at 100% commission. I wasn’t too proud to be seen at my work, but none too sure of it’s value either. Basically I’d walk into a business, look the nearest worker in the eye, tell them I had stuff to sell at a good price in my bag, and ask if I could show the employees. A surprising number of places allowed me in. I later found out this was because I didn’t have a pitch, just a “Hi there.”
One of my favorite aspects of that time was all the sunsets I witnessed over the corn fields. That was always a moment I could be completely detached from my life situation, from my uncertainty about the future. Another favorite was the long drives that afforded lots of meditative consideration of all that had come before in my life and all that I hoped to do, have, be and give.
Over the final weeks there I spent most days either at my moms or dads place, letting them offer what guidance they could to their obviously floundering offspring. A small amount of each day during that time was spent “in the field”, but I don’t remember my sales dropping, just my will to walk into another business.
In order to work so many hours I had to wake before the sun, shower, dress and feed my kitties in the dark. I drove before the sun as well, south to the office. On the way I often stopped at a Mobil station for cigarettes and to fill my tank. Because I smoked, I cracked the window several times a day. After a while, it got off track just a bit, so I was in the habit of quickly and gently adjusting it as I rolled it up completely.
Well, one morning, when the car door was open (fortunately), I did the usual adjust as I rolled it up and BOOM! the window blew out onto the cement lot, hundreds of little safety shaped pieces of auto glass. Could moving the window 1/2 an inch cause such a freaky display?!? I had no idea. The sun was still behind a curve of earth. I was awed, dumbfounded. I don’t even remember what I did between the window shattering and arriving at work with an amazing but true tale.
Someone helped me duct tape plastic bags to the frame, but it was March, cold and wet, so this was of little help against the elements. Over the following days, maybe even two weeks, I went to my dads mostly. I was truly at a loss. I would sit in his living room, limp in the soft chair, aware that tears would be appropriate, even desirable, but really just numb. He offered comfort, empathy, food and coffee. The worst was days of cold wind and rain, the plastic flapping wildly with every passing truck.
But in all this, there was a gem. In a small town between my place and dads I found an auto glass shop. I found it on my own. I spent the good portion of a day there walking around town, chatting with the staff, watching the process by which a window is installed in a car door. And then I paid for it in cash. For me then this was a HUGE triumph. I was no longer defeated but empowered. I actually felt some of my doubt about my ability to be a grown up slip away, replaced by an inner light that matched the brilliant, clean afternoon sun as I drove away from that little shop onto the highway, able to look clearly out the window on my left for the first time in seemingly ever!

Can you feel that first wave of tired, the point when sleep would come easily, sweetly, where you’d sleep through the night, and wake wonderfully refreshed, ready to take on the new day?
Is no one else needing your attention? Does your husband have bedtime under control, smoothly transitioning the tired kiddos from pj’s to clean teeth and faces, to a couple stories and all the rest?
This is the time! Seize your chance now, go brush your teeth, ease quietly into bed, keep prayers simple and sweet, meditate with the lights out, let yourself drift into sweet sweet dreams…because if you wait even 10 minutes longer you may find 3 projects that don’t seem too hard, possibly folding the clean laundry on the couch, catching up on facebook, and just a bit of straightening up. Then you may get a second wind, a wave of clarity, a willingness to sweep the kitchen floor, write a letter, balance the check book, finish that movie from last night that wasn’t all that good but you’re curious to know how it ends.
Oh, that would be sad. Because in that time of a little of this and a little of that, you might begin to think deep thoughts about your life, about your children or realize what changes would make that chocolate cake recipe perfect. Before you know it, you’ve got pen and paper out and you’re writing a “to do” for the next day, for the next week.
Unfortunately it’s getting late now. Your mind is going full steam ahead, but your body is looking at the clock, periodically counting the number of hours you’ll sleep if you go to bed by x time, then y time, then z time, which won’t really allow for enough rest (even if you could get your mind to relax again), though you’ll be alright.
But alas, you will probably not wake with that completely refreshed feeling that was within your reach.

One of us just walks away…for good.
I have your number for a time, your new address, a few memories of your face with the back drop of new walls, your new home in this odd and unfamiliar little town where I worry you’re going to work yourself to death.
It’s been a while since we talked, since one of us drove the 60 miles one way to say “Hi”, to have those familiar conversations in the living room. The long evenings where I later write a poem and you write a song, bent thoughtfully, bent beautifully over your old guitar. Some day you’ll know how to play like you know how to walk, I can feel it.
One day it would be 195 miles to say “Hello” because I moved too. I’m starting a new life, running really, because that’s what I know how to do.
I think your name one afternoon, dial hopefully. Then that recording, that familiar voice, disconnected, no further information is available about…
I don’t know your mothers number, my only hope to find you. You don’t know I’ve left our town. I know I won’t see you again.

This one better write itself or nothing will be laid on this page.
I want to write about how different DFW Texas and Mississipi are from Central Illinois in matters of socializing, either with a friend or with a new face at the grocery store. I’ll just tell what I experienced in the south. Walking through the aisles of main stream and health food grocery stores eyeballs meet, people politely smile, nod and sometimes say “Hello”. Often, a brief conversation is had in front of several brands of canned tomatoes, each sharing their favorite brand and maybe a simple description of a good recipe, or we talk about the cute shirt one of our children are wearing, or whatever.
Those who know me well will say that of course this was my experience since I naturally initiate a bit of visiting with new people in Illinois too. Here’s the difference. In DFW and Mississippi, this was the expected norm. Quite often I was not the initiator of the chats. I happily enjoyed each visit, but many times was quietly wandering the aisles in search of a certain ingredient for black bean soup, retracing my steps a few times, when the person nearest us would just start commenting on the weather, what they were making for dinner or how their left leg ached on Thursdays. Oh how I love this part of southern culture.
And this was not all. I have very few memories of short phone conversations that stuck strictly to the matters intended for the call. Usually we’d visit for up to an hour, discussing the kids, the state of the world, swimming on Sunday, childhood memories, or our hopes for an upcoming gathering. These conversations were full of meat too. The pieces that connect humans, that challenge us, that we rejoice in. Often we spontaneously brain stormed some situation one of us was working on. This was also right up my alley!
Then there were the long afternoons together. Families spending whole days lounging around at one house or another, kids playing, moms comfy on big couches in the living room or hanging in the kitchen where some chore was being tended to, dinner, dishes, snack preparation. These visits always had a set start time and rarely had a preset ending time unless some activity was coming up. At first I thought it was just luck, that our newest friends were fond of long slow visits, but it kept happening over and over, almost no matter where we went. In fact, when we’d be ready to leave with out a plan to go to, going just because I wanted to be home, our hosts would make absolutely sure we didn’t want to stay a while longer, have dinner!
Even event planning meetings were longer too, less structured, more full of casual conversation, smiles and story telling.
Indeed I miss this. True, I have made many friends here who are of the long play date variety, the visit in the store kind, the discuss our children at the playground though we just met types and I am SO grateful for these continuing friendships that are getting stronger every day…but I still miss a whole culture that is about hospitality, forging bonds of friendship, courtesy nods and sweet little chats about town.

The details are vague, but I think I know why I’m not fond of tent camping.
I was a Junior counselor at a summer camp for a sort of gentle reform program for 7th and 8th graders. It was called Earn and Learn.
In my life Earn and Learn was magic. I was a camper the previous year, recommended because I was often late to school, to the point of… a real problem. So the summer between 7th and 8th grade I was the camper. Wow, I’m silenced for a moment realizing how much I want to say about that surely life saving program, about their way of challenging us, helping us learn and grow. Well, another post of the 30 maybe.
Anyway, camp both years was a lot of outdoor activities like a many mile bike ride, horse back riding, swimming across a small lake, ketchup and mustard fights, repelling… and tent camping the year I was a counselor. I’d never been camping outside of snug cabins with soft bed and cold tile floors. But I was about to have an experience of the great outdoors. I remember walking quite a ways, though it may have been a less than enthusiastic inner attitude on my part that made it seem like a long walk. So there were lots of trees and grass. And our tents which were set up by those who know. Likely the whole experience would have faded from memory except that it rained…and rained and rained, until we had to leave camp much earlier than expected and trudge all the way back to the main camp (carrying our soggy, heavy everything), the one with cabins, a dining hall and a kitchen we worked in til 1am many nights scouring the walls, the floors and anything else with a surface, having been told that an inspector was coming soon after our stay, that we needed to make the place far cleaner than we found it. Looking back I wonder if that was true or if it was a way to build character in the young staff. Work til 1am, wake at 5am, or was it 6? It was the latest I’d stayed up after getting up the earliest I’d been up after getting to bed the latest/earliest I ever remember over and over!
That’s all I remember about that my tent camping endeavor…blah!
In all the years since, I hadn’t thought a single bit about the possibility that I would ever do such a ridiculous thing again. Fortunately or unfortunately for me, I married a man that would happily bed every night in a sleeping bag under the stars miles from anything. So far we haven’t since we had a baby 13 months after our wedding. We did sleep in a tent once when the boys were much smaller, a few paces away from a perfectly nice cabin. But I understood. Even the illusion of camping helped…a little. David’s just waiting patiently until spring when we can take our boys on a real camping trip since they are old enough to appreciate what he can teach them of his love for nature.
I guess never going as a family when I was little makes a big difference too. It’s completely off my radar as a way to spend a weekend. But this marriage thing, it requires doing what the other person wants, even if we feel uncomfortable or just bored. The one and only time I went shopping for a dress (I was part of a wedding for a dear friend) he came with me, all through the mall, to store after store, for hours and hours. For one evening we experienced what stand up comedians have tons of material about and we could see why all the jokes are a hit! He does lots of house work, tries his very best to remember all my friends names and pretty much lets me make plans for all of his off work time.
I was only aiming to write a few words about that soggy expedition, but I think I’ve just talked myself into suggesting a family camping trip!

Sloggy mind, fresh popcorn, green tile table,small wooden bowl with the last few pecan pieces and nut dust, Matthew’s water bottle, the top of my water bottle peeking over the back of my laptop screen, voices of doubt, empty spaces, tall trees I climbed at Brummel Park, 2 washcloth napkins, a stack of various gluten free flours.
Sadness, slowness, peaceful, childlike, staring at large dry leaves the boys brought in last autumn after a walk with dad, shy, sensitive, eating handfuls of the popcorn, editing before I write.
Courageous, healing, creative, fascinated, loving, determined, prayerful, thoughtful, grateful, wondering why I ever forget, even for a second, how amazing my family is.
My name is Heidi Beth. I am a Baha’i’, a wife, mother, daughter, aunt, sister in law, friend, writer, baker, cook, teacher, actress, gathering initiator, student, holder of visions, observer, keeper of art, listener, wanderer.

Silence that fills every space, sits with me, Prayer Book open on my lap.
Soft light simply is.
I know the small sighs I could hear were I to move closer, kneel beside a sleeping child.
For now I’m content to know the covers are pulled up over their shoulders, covers I’ve rearranged twice during the night as little ones twirl in their sleep at the calling of night dreams.
I am still half in their world of sleep, though my body is upright on the black couch by our front window.
Thoughts that closed in last night when I stayed up too long begin to untangle, form a clear picture for this new day.
Soon I’ll get up, make breakfast, rotate the laundry, sweep the kitchen floor, fold towels from the pile on the opposite couch.
But not yet.
If I knew how to play guitar, I’d walk to the corner, between book shelves, open the lovely black case, bring the guitar to my lap and listen to my fingers pray a melody.
I have the music of gratitude. Breathe in, breathe out, smile. I pray for the willingness to accept the prosperity in my life today.
With a prayer for guidance, I’m done for the moment.
A space opens wide.
I open The Hidden Words, listen to Baha’u’llah.
O SON OF SPIRIT!
My first counsel is this: Possess a pure, kindly and radiant heart, that thine may be a sovereignty ancient, imperishable and everlasting.
Maybe some day, I think, some day.
Today I’m okay with progress not perfection.
Now let the day begin.

I was the 15 year old telling my mother how to improve her driving though I had never been behind the wheel. I studied her feet, how she balanced the needs of the gas pedal and the clutch with each shift. I told her with great and annoying authority how she could master a smooth transition from 1st to 2nd. I couldn’t seem to shut up because I KNEW her driving could improve and since I was now in the know (my dad had been giving me pointers and descriptions of how to), well, good thing she was open and patient.
In Drivers Ed we spent long boring periods reading glossy paged books, sitting in sterile simulators with bad audio in a cold class room, listening to the teacher go on and on and on. From my classroom I could see the parking lot across the street, full of orange cones, ready for the new young driver to practice before braving the streets.
Then one day, we were allowed behind the wheel. First of course, we had to spend just a bit less boring class times weaving cones. But soon enough I flipped the turn signal, looked both ways, looked again, then turned onto Dodge with a tense and sighing instructor at my right.
Two events stand out in my learning to drive experience. One of them is a brief and terrifying moment in the car with my instructor as I merged onto a busy I-94West. After signaling, I looked behind in to the lane I was merging onto, as well as the rear view mirror, then I merged successfully. BUT, my instructor, who I had heard didn’t even drive himself but rode his bike everywhere, screamed at me that I hadn’t looked behind me, and what was I thinking and that is so dangerous and blah!!!!!!! It didn’t take much reflection for me to conclude this was a dangerous reaction! So, that was that. One practice merge per class.
The second involves my patient mother who believed my intelligence about smooth driving with a manual transmission existed in my body as well as my mind. Once I had permit in hand, down we go to the car, ready to set out on some errand and with a proud and happy smile, my mom tosses me the keys. I don’t remember whether my inability to drive a stick shift in actuality showed itself when I jerked down Greenleaf Ave a couple blocks or if I admitted my ignorance right off. Surely she remembers and will let me know after reading this.
It all worked out soon. My dad took me to Robert Crown’s parking lot after hours, suffered through a series of jerks, stalls and fancy noises and eventually felt I was knowledgeable enough to drive around the block.
I got my drivers license at the first possible moment, having to go to two facilities in one day because I forgot to put my seat belt on so failed my first test. The second tester tapped out a happy tune on the roof of the car. Very nice :).
I definitely preferred manual to automatic and still do. The challenge of shifting smoothly was fun and engaging. As Dory said when I took her out one afternoon to learn to drive a stick, “It feels like I’m driving a race car!”
And I never have stopped telling my mother how to drive…

In the small bowl, yeast, sucanut and water, once mixed, begin to foam.
In the medium bowl, an egg, agave nectar and oil settle into a blob no matter how long the electric whisk just worked them.
In the big bowl, flours, salt, baking soda, baking powder, xanthum gum, and flax meal are blended together to become one entity.
Now the contents of medium and small bowl go into the large one. They are mixed together well when a dough is evident.
Now into the breadmaker’s bread pan they go, sides of the bowl carefully scraped with a spatula. Then the mass is gently shaped.
The bread pan fits with a click into it’s counter top oven. Eighty minute quick bake begins with a series of beeps.
Eighty minutes later, a perfect loaf of bread is set on a plate then turned right side up and left to cool a bit.
Then we eat :).
In order for this to happen, the three bowls need to be clean and dry, as well as measuring cups, whisk, forks, spatula and the little oven pan. All the ingredients must be in the cupboards, fridge and flour containers.
In order for this to happen, someone must order a few items off the internet and go to a few different stores, walk the aisles, read labels, purchase the needed items then go home and put them away.
Before all this, a recipe is needed. Not the final recipe. That will come with learning, experimentation, more than one mistake and writing it down for future use. The recipe will change with experience, new ideas, suggestions from friends.
But when success is reached, the bakers smile while chewing 😉

Home for me is friendship. David is my best friend so this is good.
Home is delightful delight. Home is the space I curl up in, where I am quiet, seemingly asleep, listening carefully to the fabric of my thoughts at 2am or an hour of prayer mid afternoon so intense I must move slowly to return to the world of matter.
Home is a spacious floor, a shelf full of beautiful books, Michael Hedges first thing on a spring morning.
Home is safe and challenging, gives me space to make mistakes and learn from them.
Home is company over for hours and we eat whatever is in the fridge, over piles of legos, over stacks of books I’m urging my fried to borrow, listening to our children navigate new friendship, connected to love.
Home is that space of meditation where I fly, short super heroes, messy dining room tables, lots of laundry, most special in the world tiny loud kisses with giggles, soft little hands in mine, an eager question, an insightful observation that reminds me Devyn and Matthew are ever growing more mature.
Home is a funny conversation with David, an unexpected family afternoon laughing like crazy watching Bedtime Stories on my laptop at the Baha’i Center long after the days program has ended.
Home is love, joy, peace, healing, wonder, beauty, gratitude…
I am home.