Skip to main content

Living Life in Draft

My wife is a blog hog—and a prolific one at that. On more than one occassion in the past few weeks, I've thought of posting to this blog about some topic only to find that she has beat me to it. The way our Christmas bear tradition was hatched in our poverty. My near-death experience with a pack of feral teenagers. The snowball luminaries I learned to make in Finland.

It's that last one that really takes the cake. I knew I would have to be quick to the computer if I was going to write about it before Thelma did. But how quick? Impossibly so. Before I had my gloves of and had dusted the snow off my sandals, Thelma had beat me to the punch.

Perhaps I'll start writing about what I'm going to do.

I'm convinced that Thelma lives her life in draft. Somewhere in her mind she is always writing. She captures life in written form and then it's just a matter of finding time to get it down on paper. Dumbledore had a pensieve in the Harry Potter stories. Thelma has a blog.

The wonderful thing about living life in draft is that it gives you an opportunity to make final edits before fully committing it to paper or post or even memory.

Take December 2002, for example. I live in the moment. It was a time of cold, miserable nights in a drafty old house with a newborn baby. For Thelma, though, it was "a Christmas of precious little sleep and precious time gazing into my newborn Mark’s eyes by the light of the Christmas tree." That's the beauty of living life in draft. My memories are rigid and brittle. Thelma's are fluid and flowing.

Every now and again I still get hung up on the facts of a situation when I listen to Thelma tell a story or read over her shoulder as she writes an email to family or friends. Every now and again I protest and insist, "That's not how it was!" But, it's only every now and again. Life is much better by the time Thelma is done with it.

Comments

Olivia Cobian said…
I love reading what you write. Thelma's not the only writer in your family--just the fastest.

Popular posts from this blog

Sons and Daughters unto God

Lately, I find myself reciting in my mind portions of The Living Christ: The Testimony of the Apostles . I memorized it years ago when our family was studying it at Easter. It has been a constant source of strength and perspective in my life. For all the scripture and sermon that exists about Jesus Christ, I’m not sure there is a more succinct and beautiful treatment of who he is and why it matters. There is one passage that repeats D&C 76. Referring to Jesus Christ, the Prophet Joseph wrote, “We saw him, even on the right hand of God; and we heard the voice bearing record that he is the Only Begotten of the Father— That by him, and through him, and of him, the worlds are and were created, and the inhabitants thereof are begotten sons and daughters unto God.” ( D&C 76: 23-24 ) I find in these truths evidence of Jesus Christ’s sweeping love and grace. Because of the universal atonement of Jesus Christ, he brings every inhabitant of every world he has ever created back into t...

Three Wonders

I know the tradition began earlier, but I associate it with the Carmen Red Oldsmobile station wagon. There was also the Toyota van, but the Oldsmobile days were the magic ones. Over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house we would literally go. (Also through the valley, past the waterfalls, over the hill, and along the lake.) Neilan family Christmas at Grandma and Grandpa's house. The house where my mom was raised, where aunts, uncles, and cousins were just a few houses or blocks away. The two story house where on any ordinary day you entered directly into the kitchen, sat at the kitchen table, and just listened to my mom and her parents talk as an assortment of her brothers would inevitably call or stop by. But on Christmas Eve, the house was already packed to the brim with family, presents, food, and laughter. So much laughter. It was a wonderland as a child to be surrounded by people who loved you and were excited to see you. The house was warm and the large w...

Driving East

I will wake up tomorrow morning, on Father’s Day, alone in Cheyenne without my family. I say this matter-of-factly. Designated days have only a light hold on me. An unexpected business trip that means being gone on Father’s Day? No problem. I'm not much for ceremony. More than once we have marked Father’s Day by splurging for a hotdog at Costco while filling up the minivan on a road trip. (Surely, Cheyenne has a Costco.) If I wake up emotional tomorrow morning, it's not because I'm alone on Father’s Day. It will be because of the cocktail of emotions I drank today. —— Driving across Wyoming was beautiful. Everything below the horizon looked groomed and green. The grass, the hills. the forests. A sea of green dusted with flecks of distant snowfields and antelope. (So many antelope.) Above the horizon, wild white and stormy black scratched across brilliant blue. The kind of sea and sky that softens your heart and tricks your mind.  I pulled off the highway at Little America f...