I don't know what's come over me, but suddenly family history is fun? I kept thinking and thinking about buying a fifteen generation pedigree chart, for only like a dollar at Deseret Book, and it just seemed necessary. So I finally bought one last Friday and have been filling it up with this weird, nerdy gusto. I completed the front side (9 generations) in a few days, and before deciding which ancestral lines to map out on the back (there's limited space), I went ahead and color coded each person by place of birth (see above picture).

Then I added highlighter lines to each person who emigrated.

Then I added green stickers to each fellow who was a practicing polygamist (Mormon ancestral cred -- I haz it).

And now I'm adding purple stickers to the people who converted to Mormonism, along with the year of baptism.

I unfold the big sheet every so often to take a look at my progress; there's something immensely satisfying about this project. And dangit if I don't feel more connected to these people than I ever have before.

Quilts

My extended family has a big 4th of July celebration every summer, spanning 2-3 days. Last year's party included a little family history showcase, and that's where I saw my great-grandma's quilts for the first time. They got me right in my heart, big time. She had crazy quilts made from scraps and more refined ones in united color themes. I didn't know these quilts existed, didn't know this had been such an endeavor for her -- didn't know her at all, actually, since she died a handful of years before I was born. This is her as a teenager:

great-grandma Carma

Seeing her quilts sparked a little thing in me, a desire to learn how to do what she did, what so many women in my family have done (and also my dad, who is an enthusiastic hobbyist and did patchwork quilts for a few years when I was a kid).

I cornered one of my great-aunts a few days later and made her teach me Carma's signature embroidery stitch -- the crow's foot stitch; she used it to finish all of her quilts, between each swatch of fabric. And over the following months, I started saving fabrics I thought I'd want to use on a quilt of my own (clothes I didn't wear anymore, mostly) and pinning to a Pinterest board full of quilting techniques, patterns, and tricks.

And now, more than a year later, some stuff is coming together.

cutting up an old shirt

my starter materials, all from shirts I culled from my wardrobe -- I used these to make half-triangle squares by combining two squares, sewing down the middle on the diagonal, and cutting them apart

figuring out a disorganized pattern -- I'm partial to disorganized things

more fabrics from a flannel shirt, a floral apron, and a 70s dress

Hair History

I dyed my hair for the first time during Sr year of high school. I claimed it was for a part in a play, but really, the role didn't call for any particular physical appearance -- I just wanted different hair. The box of dye I chose was supposed to take me from blonde to medium brown, but the red undertones in my hair did their own thing, leaving me with a color that a future boyfriend compared to Kirsten Dunst's Mary Jane in "Spiderman."

After that first plunge, I messed with my hair on a regular basis. I went back to blonde, then to a bright red, then to a darker auburn shade, then to a true dark brown, like this ...

... before taking the biggest risk so far with a buzz cut.

My poor hair had been through enough. I laid it to rest on the floor of Rudy's Barber Shop and started fresh.

Since then, my natural blonde has been the order of the day, in varying lengths.

The Meditative Practice of Painting Your Nails

1.

Pre-teen me was crazy about nail polish. I remember buying these mini-bottles from Wal-Mart, in the brightest colors possible, and painting each fingernail and toenail a different color, sitting on my bed in the basement, bathed in light coming through the window well. I would wait impatiently for the polish to dry, then use a toothpick to dab clunky five-petal flowers on top. It was not cute, grown-up me is certain, but pre-teen me loved it -- loved the process, loved the result.

2.

Professional pedicures have never been my thing. I'm just not one for pampering in general, I suppose. But last weekend, on an epic retreat with girlfriends, we made the impulsive decision to head to a nail place in town and get a little dose of pretty. The ladies at Tip & Toe Nails looked a wee bit shocked when the seven of us walked in -- four pedicures and three manicures, please. I was in the pedicure crowd. Having selected my color of choice (Tasmanian Devil Made Me Do It by OPI -- gotta love these names), I sat back and let the master work. She scrubbed, lotioned, clipped, massaged, and lacquered up my toes. Reclined there in my chair, I thought back to pre-teen Sara, how much uncomplicated joy she got out of painting her nails. What happened to that, I wondered? I still keep my toenails painted most of the time, but always in the most utilitarian sort of way -- I don't savor it the way I used to. My fingernails, well ... the most love they get is the occasional dig-out-the-accumulated-dirt-from-underneath routine. That habit, that practice, of selecting a polish, trying it out, layering it, playing with it -- that's gone from my adult life. And it's fine to grow out of something you used to like, if you genuinely lose interest. Nothing at all wrong with that. But something about the Tasmanian Devil, dried and smiling up at me from my toes, told me that this could still be one of life's simple pleasures for me, something I needed to revisit.

3.

On Monday, still fresh from the weekend and the pedicure appointment, I cleaned out my nail polish collection. Mind you, the collection wasn't too vast to begin with, but there were some colors that didn't suit me very well. Into the garbage they went. Later that day, I replenished my supply with a few new choices -- a coral-y red, a dark green, and a navy. (They have kooky nail polish names of their own, of course, but those descriptions will do for now.) And on Tuesday, as my son napped in his crib, I busted out the dark green for some at-home manicuring. I started with clean nails, then did a clear base coat, two coats of the green, and a top coat to minimize chipping. (Side note: it has already chipped so much! I need lessons on this stuff!)

And while it felt a little odd, like I was severely out of practice, there's definitely something about thoughtfully, patiently painting my nails that calms me. I've never felt that way about doing my hair or shaving or putting on makeup, but the nail polish somehow is its own thing. It soothes me. And the finished product brightens my mood. The need for precision and smooth motion engages my brain in something measurable yet meaningless, like the repetition of a mantra that eventually just becomes connected sounds instead of actual words. It's meditation, really. Pre-teen me probably understood that, on some level.