The Beauty of the Season
Last week, as I sat in church, I had a revelation.
What better place for that?
I'll admit that, as I sat, my mind wandered back to the Saturday night just before when I had sat in the living room of some dear friends, gaping at their Christmas tree as it slowly came together. I tied silver glittered ribbon to painted glass orbs and handed them off to find their way onto the artificial branches. The white lights set those orbs afire as they spun slowly, mindlessly, gently back and forth before coming to rest in the soft light.
I was so entranced with the beauty of it, I was momentarily afraid to speak for fear of spoiling the beauty.
I love white lights, and colored glass, and little stars, and white-glitter snowflakes, and garlands, and candles, and carols, and snow, and bundled people, mittens, scarves, hats, coats... I love it all so much sometimes I think my heart will burst...
Yet, while sitting in church, thinking back on the tree, I suddenly feel a bit guilty... that stuff is not what Christmas is about. Christmas is about the Savior, about His birth, about His Atonement, death, and resurrection. It is about His love, and God's love and what they mean for me in my life...
And then I hear Keats in my head saying "Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty" and I think: I love those beautiful things because of the Truth that they represent. If Beauty is a sort of abstract Truth-- something you can't quite put your finger on, but can sense nonetheless-- then the lights, the garlands, the snow, the music, the glitter-- by their very nature all mean: He loves you, He wants you to be happy, He will help you to be happy, fear not, love your neighbor, love your family, rise above who you are now to become who you want to be.... and do all of this because over 2000 years ago, a beautiful woman gave birth to the beautiful son of a beautiful God who loved you enough to give up everything for you-- and I can't think of any Truth more beautiful than that.
Merry Christmas, my friends.
Comparison is a Tricky Standard: Righteous Judgment as I Currently See It
Anyone who knows me knows that I can be a bit of a broken record at times. That is to say, at any given stage in my life I have a small collection of words and phrases that are used and applied in almost any and all situations.
Annoying. I know. I would say I am working on it, because I am, but I don't want to get up any false hopes that the quirk will be eradicated overnight.
Well--because it won't.
Anyway, one of the classics during my University era was the word 'judging' and a few phrases containing the word.
"You're judging."
"You're judging, and you're jealous."
"You're such a judger!" (Not a word, I know)
Or, the ever classic *look-at-you-with-raised-eyebrows* "JUDGING."
etc.
Oh dear. I must defend the ridiculousness of this in stating that none of these accusations were ever used in much seriousness, and though the hilarity of the jest quite wore off after a week or two I am sure, they inexplicably remained frequent members of my conversation bank for 2 or more years.
For those who felt the need to take me literally, Elder Oaks' talk "'Judge Not' and Judging" was frequently brought up, thereby attempting to turn a jest into a serious conversation. Served me right, I am sure, but I don't think I ever had it, and I do believe I offended people on occasion with my insensitivity. No one wants to be told that they are unrighteously judging (especially after reading and understanding Elder Oak's powerful testimony on the need for righteous judgment) and I should not have joked about such things. I am sorry.
Lately, I have had many thoughts on the subject of judgment, the ways that we judge, etc. I am sure that there are plenty of scriptures on this topic that I have not found, but I have seen a few and learned a great deal in the last few weeks about how we judge. If you care to read Elder Oaks' talk linked above, please do. I am not going to discuss the whole thing here again. It has been done. However, I will include his brief summary so that you know what he was getting at if you are unfamiliar with the material:
In the intermediate judgments we must make, we should take care to judge righteously. We should seek the guidance of the Spirit in our decisions. We should limit our judgments to our own stewardships. Whenever possible we should refrain from judging people until we have an adequate knowledge of the facts. So far as possible, we should judge circumstances rather than people. In all our judgments we should apply righteous standards. And, in all of this we must remember the command to forgive.
Being interested in more than just circumstantial directions for judgment (not to discount Oaks, his talk is incredibly insightful and useful, I just wanted to switch gears) I have stumbled upon a few things that have enlightened my understanding on the topic of righteous judgment. I would simply like to add my voice to all of those others who have paved the way for further thought on the subject.
I am normally a fan of mystery/surprises, but I am going to cut right to the chase on this one.
RIGHTEOUS JUDGMENT SHOULD ALWAYS BE BASED ON SOMETHING IN AND OF ITSELF.
Let me explain.
We live in a world of comparison. Comparing my job to yours, comparing my kids to yours, my husband to yours, my front yard to yours, my Christmas lights to yours (P.S. I don't have a husband, or children... you get the point) I am probably not going to stop comparing all of the time, because I am human. I wish I could stop doing it.
Really, though. This is what it comes down to: Who cares?! Just because your kid is smart in Geometry, and mine has to go to a special class just to scrape through in math. What in the world of a difference does it make? It can go the other way. Maybe my child is a genius at the piano, and yours couldn't identify the difference between a piano and a tuba.
Again. Who cares? Who really cares?
Well. The answer to that is probably "all involved parties". But the answer probably should be "no one".
Let us say for the sake of the story that we don't care, (oh what a world it would be) and we decide that we're just going to look at our children and not pay attention to what the others children are doing. Now I see my child for what it is: a talent at the piano, who could use some help at math. He is no better, or no worse than your child. He just is.
Liberating, isn't it?
Driving analogy! Driving analogies are always good, right? The old, "road trip of life" bit. Ok, so you're driving on the Freeway (in SL county, so you're going 75 in a 65, not 65 in a construction zone 55) and you see this girl next to you in a sports car ROCKING out to some new album she just got at Graywhale and is pretty excited about. You have some options here:
1. You can think to yourself, "Wow. That girl is a total idiot. She is not paying attention. She is going to crash and die."
2. You can think to yourself, "Looks like a good time. I wonder what she's listening to. Good old Graywhale, that place is awesome. Maybe if I tilt my head this way I can see the album cover so that I can go to Graywhale later and pick it up for myself."
OK. One of those thoughts is nice, the other isn't. Is either really all that helpful? I'm thinking not so much. Well, you might get some good music out of it later on. Truth be told, you're most likely just going to crash your own car because you're so fixated on what she is doing you're not paying enough attention to your own thing.
Ok, so does that mean you just stare at your own lane, and never look over at all? I remember when I was learning to drive being told the skill of assertive driving (which, I'm actually not that great at). Assertive drivers are very aware of what is going on around them so that they can react accordingly to protect themselves.
We're getting to one of the hearts of my issue now. This life, despite what others may tell you, is about you. Before you think I'm an apostate, hear me out.
You can only control yourself.
You have been told to "work out your own salvation with fear and trembling before [The Lord]."
Only you can determine if you are exalted or not.
You cannot have faith for other people, or use other people's faith.
You cannot use other people's oil.
You cannot save other people.
You cannot control other people/things, you can only control your reactions to other people/things.
So, if this isn't about me, then how come all of these principles are true?
Yeah. This is not the one where I talk about "losing yourself to find it" because... well, that is a story for another rainy day. For now, I am talking about judging, and the need for each of us to WORRY ABOUT OURSELVES.
Back to the car thing. Two other options.
3). You can say "I do not care about what is going on in the car next to me, because I am just worrying about my own self and my own car. I am not going to look over there at all, or pay any mind to anything going on around me." (all the while, Graywhale girl is jamming recklessly away).
4). OR, finally, you can think, "I see next to me a girl in a car who does not seem to be paying close attention to the road. Whatever her reasons, I need to make sure to steer clear of any potential danger. I will be especially cautious as I drive next to her. In fact, maybe I'll move lanes so that I won't be near her. I sure hope she's OK."
Which of the 4 options is the most productive? Number 3 seems like a good plan at first glance. Don't worry about others, just worry about yourself. But, that option might also get you killed. I mean, she really isn't paying very close attention. If you chose option 4, you are protecting yourself without being unfair. You acknowledge that perhaps she has reasons you don't understand for driving recklessly. You aren't pronouncing impending death on her and those in her car. You are making an observation (as Elder Oaks would point out, one without all of the facts, because you do not have the time or the means necessary to get all of the facts) and you will most likely benefit yourself by this method of judgment. You are looking out for yourself, and judging a situation (as Elder Oaks also suggests), instead of a person.
The dialogue goes from: "That girl is a total idiot, she's going to get us all killed." to "This car is probably not safe to be around indefinitely."
Better yet if you have your children in the car, you are also making a judgment call with their safety in mind.
Now, say you're driving and you see your own daughter driving recklessly? Ok, that is also a question for another day. Haha! (Sorry).
Back to the very points at hand. How do we judge? I was saying earlier that we should judge things in and of themselves. Saying, "I'm a way better driver than that chick!" is NOT productive. How in the world is that going to help anything? Joke's on you if you end up rear-ending someone because you're sitting there thinking about how much of a better driver you are than Graywhale girl.
Saying, "I am going to be careful driving next to that car because for whatever reason, the car is not being handled in the best way. I wonder if I sometimes do the same thing? I know sometimes when a favorite song comes on I can be a little distracted. I should work on paying more attention while I'm driving." is a very productive way to judge. It is not a comparison call. It is judging something for what it is, in and of itself. It is not professing to know all of the facts, and giving room for the possibility (maybe even if it's not a probability) of there being other reasons why the young woman is not driving cautiously or carefully. This statement also brings it back to ME. Because this is about ME. "I need to work on things as well. I can learn from this. I will not drive distracted. I will try to be more cautious on the road."
Moroni 7: 16-17 gives valuable insight into judging things in and of themselves:
...wherefore, I show unto you the way to judge; for every thing which inviteth to do good, and to persuade to believe in Christ, is sent forth by the power and gift of Christ; wherefore ye may know with a perfect knowledge it is of God.
Annoying. I know. I would say I am working on it, because I am, but I don't want to get up any false hopes that the quirk will be eradicated overnight.
Well--because it won't.
Anyway, one of the classics during my University era was the word 'judging' and a few phrases containing the word.
"You're judging."
"You're judging, and you're jealous."
"You're such a judger!" (Not a word, I know)
Or, the ever classic *look-at-you-with-raised-eyebrows* "JUDGING."
etc.
Oh dear. I must defend the ridiculousness of this in stating that none of these accusations were ever used in much seriousness, and though the hilarity of the jest quite wore off after a week or two I am sure, they inexplicably remained frequent members of my conversation bank for 2 or more years.
For those who felt the need to take me literally, Elder Oaks' talk "'Judge Not' and Judging" was frequently brought up, thereby attempting to turn a jest into a serious conversation. Served me right, I am sure, but I don't think I ever had it, and I do believe I offended people on occasion with my insensitivity. No one wants to be told that they are unrighteously judging (especially after reading and understanding Elder Oak's powerful testimony on the need for righteous judgment) and I should not have joked about such things. I am sorry.
Lately, I have had many thoughts on the subject of judgment, the ways that we judge, etc. I am sure that there are plenty of scriptures on this topic that I have not found, but I have seen a few and learned a great deal in the last few weeks about how we judge. If you care to read Elder Oaks' talk linked above, please do. I am not going to discuss the whole thing here again. It has been done. However, I will include his brief summary so that you know what he was getting at if you are unfamiliar with the material:
In the intermediate judgments we must make, we should take care to judge righteously. We should seek the guidance of the Spirit in our decisions. We should limit our judgments to our own stewardships. Whenever possible we should refrain from judging people until we have an adequate knowledge of the facts. So far as possible, we should judge circumstances rather than people. In all our judgments we should apply righteous standards. And, in all of this we must remember the command to forgive.
Being interested in more than just circumstantial directions for judgment (not to discount Oaks, his talk is incredibly insightful and useful, I just wanted to switch gears) I have stumbled upon a few things that have enlightened my understanding on the topic of righteous judgment. I would simply like to add my voice to all of those others who have paved the way for further thought on the subject.
I am normally a fan of mystery/surprises, but I am going to cut right to the chase on this one.
RIGHTEOUS JUDGMENT SHOULD ALWAYS BE BASED ON SOMETHING IN AND OF ITSELF.
Let me explain.
We live in a world of comparison. Comparing my job to yours, comparing my kids to yours, my husband to yours, my front yard to yours, my Christmas lights to yours (P.S. I don't have a husband, or children... you get the point) I am probably not going to stop comparing all of the time, because I am human. I wish I could stop doing it.
Really, though. This is what it comes down to: Who cares?! Just because your kid is smart in Geometry, and mine has to go to a special class just to scrape through in math. What in the world of a difference does it make? It can go the other way. Maybe my child is a genius at the piano, and yours couldn't identify the difference between a piano and a tuba.
Again. Who cares? Who really cares?
Well. The answer to that is probably "all involved parties". But the answer probably should be "no one".
Let us say for the sake of the story that we don't care, (oh what a world it would be) and we decide that we're just going to look at our children and not pay attention to what the others children are doing. Now I see my child for what it is: a talent at the piano, who could use some help at math. He is no better, or no worse than your child. He just is.
Liberating, isn't it?
Driving analogy! Driving analogies are always good, right? The old, "road trip of life" bit. Ok, so you're driving on the Freeway (in SL county, so you're going 75 in a 65, not 65 in a construction zone 55) and you see this girl next to you in a sports car ROCKING out to some new album she just got at Graywhale and is pretty excited about. You have some options here:
1. You can think to yourself, "Wow. That girl is a total idiot. She is not paying attention. She is going to crash and die."
2. You can think to yourself, "Looks like a good time. I wonder what she's listening to. Good old Graywhale, that place is awesome. Maybe if I tilt my head this way I can see the album cover so that I can go to Graywhale later and pick it up for myself."
OK. One of those thoughts is nice, the other isn't. Is either really all that helpful? I'm thinking not so much. Well, you might get some good music out of it later on. Truth be told, you're most likely just going to crash your own car because you're so fixated on what she is doing you're not paying enough attention to your own thing.
Ok, so does that mean you just stare at your own lane, and never look over at all? I remember when I was learning to drive being told the skill of assertive driving (which, I'm actually not that great at). Assertive drivers are very aware of what is going on around them so that they can react accordingly to protect themselves.
We're getting to one of the hearts of my issue now. This life, despite what others may tell you, is about you. Before you think I'm an apostate, hear me out.
You can only control yourself.
You have been told to "work out your own salvation with fear and trembling before [The Lord]."
Only you can determine if you are exalted or not.
You cannot have faith for other people, or use other people's faith.
You cannot use other people's oil.
You cannot save other people.
You cannot control other people/things, you can only control your reactions to other people/things.
So, if this isn't about me, then how come all of these principles are true?
Yeah. This is not the one where I talk about "losing yourself to find it" because... well, that is a story for another rainy day. For now, I am talking about judging, and the need for each of us to WORRY ABOUT OURSELVES.
Back to the car thing. Two other options.
3). You can say "I do not care about what is going on in the car next to me, because I am just worrying about my own self and my own car. I am not going to look over there at all, or pay any mind to anything going on around me." (all the while, Graywhale girl is jamming recklessly away).
4). OR, finally, you can think, "I see next to me a girl in a car who does not seem to be paying close attention to the road. Whatever her reasons, I need to make sure to steer clear of any potential danger. I will be especially cautious as I drive next to her. In fact, maybe I'll move lanes so that I won't be near her. I sure hope she's OK."
Which of the 4 options is the most productive? Number 3 seems like a good plan at first glance. Don't worry about others, just worry about yourself. But, that option might also get you killed. I mean, she really isn't paying very close attention. If you chose option 4, you are protecting yourself without being unfair. You acknowledge that perhaps she has reasons you don't understand for driving recklessly. You aren't pronouncing impending death on her and those in her car. You are making an observation (as Elder Oaks would point out, one without all of the facts, because you do not have the time or the means necessary to get all of the facts) and you will most likely benefit yourself by this method of judgment. You are looking out for yourself, and judging a situation (as Elder Oaks also suggests), instead of a person.
The dialogue goes from: "That girl is a total idiot, she's going to get us all killed." to "This car is probably not safe to be around indefinitely."
Better yet if you have your children in the car, you are also making a judgment call with their safety in mind.
Now, say you're driving and you see your own daughter driving recklessly? Ok, that is also a question for another day. Haha! (Sorry).
Back to the very points at hand. How do we judge? I was saying earlier that we should judge things in and of themselves. Saying, "I'm a way better driver than that chick!" is NOT productive. How in the world is that going to help anything? Joke's on you if you end up rear-ending someone because you're sitting there thinking about how much of a better driver you are than Graywhale girl.
Saying, "I am going to be careful driving next to that car because for whatever reason, the car is not being handled in the best way. I wonder if I sometimes do the same thing? I know sometimes when a favorite song comes on I can be a little distracted. I should work on paying more attention while I'm driving." is a very productive way to judge. It is not a comparison call. It is judging something for what it is, in and of itself. It is not professing to know all of the facts, and giving room for the possibility (maybe even if it's not a probability) of there being other reasons why the young woman is not driving cautiously or carefully. This statement also brings it back to ME. Because this is about ME. "I need to work on things as well. I can learn from this. I will not drive distracted. I will try to be more cautious on the road."
Moroni 7: 16-17 gives valuable insight into judging things in and of themselves:
...wherefore, I show unto you the way to judge; for every thing which inviteth to do good, and to persuade to believe in Christ, is sent forth by the power and gift of Christ; wherefore ye may know with a perfect knowledge it is of God.
But whatsoever thing persuadeth men to do evil, and believe not in Christ, and deny him, and serve not God, then ye may know with a perfect knowledge it is of the devil; for after this manner doth the devil work, for he persuadeth no man to do good, no, not one; neither do his angels; neither do they who subject themselves unto him.
So we are to judge things based on what they entice us to do. Notice, the text does not say, "If it entices you to do better than something else does, then it is of God." There is no comparison involved.
Along the same vein, but slightly different, there is another reference. 3 Nephi 14: 20:
Wherefore, by their fruits ye shall know them.
Ok. So we are told that if it produces good, then it is good. Again, no comparison needed. It is talking about something in and of itself.
The next point is one that I have heard from MANY sources, but have chosen here to draw from my favorite of all General Authority addresses: Jeffrey R. Holland's memorable BYU devotional address "Remember Lot's Wife".
Dismiss the destructive and keep dismissing it, until the beauty of the Atonement of Christ has revealed to you your bright future, and the bright future of your family and your friends and your neighbors. God doesn't care nearly as much about where you have been as He does about where you are, and with His help, where you are willing to go. (Emphasis added)
Judging something against its past. Judging by progress. Judging something in and of itself. If I think that I am more righteous than so-and-so because I have not made the 'mistakes' they have made, I am not taking into account this important principle. If I have only progressed 1 step since I was 17, and so-and-so has progressed 25, how does that make me so great? That kind of makes me look like an idiot, truth be told. Maybe there are reasons I have not progressed, and God knows all, but comparison is a tricky standard. Do away with it. God doesn't use it, so why should we?
Elder Holland also brushed on the topic of comparison itself in his legendary talk "The Tongue of Angels". Of course, there he was talking specifically on how we treat our children, but I think it's useful here.
And try not to compare your children, even if you think you are skillful at it. You may say most positively that “Susan is pretty and Sandra is bright,” but all Susan will remember is that she isn’t bright and Sandra that she isn’t pretty. Praise each child individually for what that child is, and help him or her escape our culture’s obsession with comparing, competing, and never feeling we are “enough.” (Emphasis added).
Perhaps there are instances when comparison is useful and Godly. I can't think of any, so for now I want to move away from it. For now, I want to eradicate it in my life. Compare only to say "this enticeth me to do good, produces good fruit, and invites a forward walking--this other thing does not. I choose light. I choose Truth. I choose good fruit, and progress, and Charity, and Hope, and Faith, and Life."
I hope that I will be able to judge righteously as I move through life, and that all can be done in the spirit of faith, hope, and charity. As a great Mormon Theologists friend, and brother recently stated in the comments section of a guest blog post he composed,
"Repentance is not simply the 4 step sequence of addressing individual acts or thoughts but the re-orientation and transformation of our entire being. Crucially, repentance is always without exception about me, about us, not about others. The moment we look outward to others as those in need of change is the moment that we have lost faith, hope, and charity. Repentance is about our own destabilization and constant re-adjustment of what we thought we knew and how we can more precisely love and forgive. Repentance requires that we constantly be broken down and made new. How soon before that which is new becomes old again? The process of beginning again with new eyes is relentless. If we cannot see others and the world around us with new, restored eyes we cannot give ourselves to them in those ways that are mutually redemptive. The Restoration, then, is decidedly not simply the restoration of original doctrines and practices, but the constant personal restoration of our souls through repentance." -Jacob Baker "Sexual Transgression and Dwelling Together in Love"
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You {Me}-- A Study: Narration
We are storytellers, you and I.
By storyteller, you must understand, I do not mean someone who relates falsehoods. I mean someone for whom stories are a part of life. I once read an essay written under the ideology that the only difference between the human brain and the computer is that the human brain knows and can apply the phrase, "that reminds me of a story." I think there is a lot of truth to that.
I believe strongly in the power of stories, be they true or untrue, sad or silly, short or long, personal or public.
I love stories.
So here I am again, back on BYU campus. You are there too, though I think that it is the first and last time I ever saw you there. Different events have brought us to be wandering about the Museum of Art on a Saturday evening, and it is there we meet by happenstance. It has been some time since I last saw you, which fuels my excitement.
meant.to.be.
You had nowhere to be, and neither did I. What else to do but join meanderings? We did, and we talked, and you told me your stories. I will not re-tell any of them here, for they are not mine to relate. I will say that as you talked, it become apparent to me that your stories mean as much to you as mine do to me.
We are kindred spirits that way.
You talked, and in turn, let me talk. Yours were better than mine. All of my stories were so pathetic, I could swear I was liable to cry at intervals. You were calm, but the things you said were affecting: typical adventures, not-so-typical adventures--heartbreak, triumph, joy, incredulation (not a word), trepidation-- all broke over me like the cold wind of the early spring that surrounded us; surrounded us as we went around, and around. I was in awe at the way you were able to size-up life, put it in perspective; it all seemed so... un-graspable to me. It was a lesson in narration. Seeing life for what it was, and not being affected to the point of paralysis. It was looking back to turn anew to the future. My story-telling sessions are usually the beginning of a long chain of excuses as to why I do everything that I do, and why I do not believe I could possibly do better...
Not yours. You own your stories in a way I have never been able to replicate.
Remember the young man with the glove? I think we told him we were siblings. Wicked of us, really.
"I think if I find the woman that fits this glove, I will find my future wife."
Oh, I could have killed you when you made some remark to the tune of "So are you going to stop flirting and just ask her out, already?"
He gave me a look like 'maybe I will', and I gave him a look like, 'maybe you shouldn't.' He didn't; but I often reminisce and enjoy a good laugh at his expense--him and his overly-flirtatious ways.
I had that glove in my pocket for a few weeks after that, and every time I put my hand into the pocket of my overcoat, I would think of you, the narrator. I wish I could remember whatever became of that little souvenir. I might have accidentally "lost it" at a bus stop, on account of the other memory I had connected with it. (haha!)
I should have kept it: that souvenir of our story.
Thank you. Thank you for your courage, and your example, and for your ability to narrate and inspire. You have done more good in my life than you can know, of that I am absolutely certain.
By storyteller, you must understand, I do not mean someone who relates falsehoods. I mean someone for whom stories are a part of life. I once read an essay written under the ideology that the only difference between the human brain and the computer is that the human brain knows and can apply the phrase, "that reminds me of a story." I think there is a lot of truth to that.
I believe strongly in the power of stories, be they true or untrue, sad or silly, short or long, personal or public.
I love stories.
So here I am again, back on BYU campus. You are there too, though I think that it is the first and last time I ever saw you there. Different events have brought us to be wandering about the Museum of Art on a Saturday evening, and it is there we meet by happenstance. It has been some time since I last saw you, which fuels my excitement.
meant.to.be.
You had nowhere to be, and neither did I. What else to do but join meanderings? We did, and we talked, and you told me your stories. I will not re-tell any of them here, for they are not mine to relate. I will say that as you talked, it become apparent to me that your stories mean as much to you as mine do to me.
We are kindred spirits that way.
You talked, and in turn, let me talk. Yours were better than mine. All of my stories were so pathetic, I could swear I was liable to cry at intervals. You were calm, but the things you said were affecting: typical adventures, not-so-typical adventures--heartbreak, triumph, joy, incredulation (not a word), trepidation-- all broke over me like the cold wind of the early spring that surrounded us; surrounded us as we went around, and around. I was in awe at the way you were able to size-up life, put it in perspective; it all seemed so... un-graspable to me. It was a lesson in narration. Seeing life for what it was, and not being affected to the point of paralysis. It was looking back to turn anew to the future. My story-telling sessions are usually the beginning of a long chain of excuses as to why I do everything that I do, and why I do not believe I could possibly do better...
Not yours. You own your stories in a way I have never been able to replicate.
Remember the young man with the glove? I think we told him we were siblings. Wicked of us, really.
"I think if I find the woman that fits this glove, I will find my future wife."
Oh, I could have killed you when you made some remark to the tune of "So are you going to stop flirting and just ask her out, already?"
He gave me a look like 'maybe I will', and I gave him a look like, 'maybe you shouldn't.' He didn't; but I often reminisce and enjoy a good laugh at his expense--him and his overly-flirtatious ways.
I had that glove in my pocket for a few weeks after that, and every time I put my hand into the pocket of my overcoat, I would think of you, the narrator. I wish I could remember whatever became of that little souvenir. I might have accidentally "lost it" at a bus stop, on account of the other memory I had connected with it. (haha!)
I should have kept it: that souvenir of our story.
Thank you. Thank you for your courage, and your example, and for your ability to narrate and inspire. You have done more good in my life than you can know, of that I am absolutely certain.
"I'll Never Live to Get Any Shade Out of It"
When I was taking film classes back at the University, I was shown this short documentary in one of them.
I have never forgot it. It is not on YouTube, and I couldn't figure out any way to embed it, so if you want to see what I'm talking about, you'll have to follow the link.
I guess it doesn't really matter. Truth be told, I don't really care if no one bothers to click on the link and watch the video. Life is busy, we all have plenty to do.
I'll take it a step further and say...that I'm not even going to say...that you SHOULD watch this video. You 'shouldn't' do anything. I will tell you that it wouldn't hurt to watch it; it might do you some good.
As stated, I have never forgot this film, though I'm not sure what it was that inspired me to run a Google search on it this evening. A portly old gentleman, working his crossing-guard post 10 years ago. Who knows if Leroy is still around today? The kids in the video are graduating from high school. Some of them might remember him, most of them probably don't. I can almost guarantee that none of them remember his name.
It would be nice to say that this video was one of those "beauty of the everyday, find the hidden artistic side of being old and having little to do, I want to help you change your life...." sort of endeavors... but... it isn't.
I love it because....
Gosh, I don't know.
Because it was made with so much love. This is charity at its finest. Ben Unguren wasn't trying to make a hero out of Leroy. I'm not really sure he was trying to do much of anything. It is pretty unpolished. It is as it is.
Don't think I'm stupid enough to think that this is "Unbiased" or just a "slice of life" with no artistic lens on it. That would not even be possible. (No Unobstructed Views, remember?) But it does do a good job at getting closer to the heart of the issue, to the heart of a (possibly) lonely old man. It does a better job than a lot of what you probably see.
Is Leroy a hero anyway? Probably. I'm sure he was for someone, somewhere.
I guess he becomes a hero to me every time I think of his words that close the clip.
"Well. I guess it's about time to go home and plant my tree. I'll never live to get any shade out of it, but I'll go home and plant it.
What are you going to do when you leave here?"
No judgment, no nod towards striving to be inspirational. It is pretty raw, pretty unsalted, pretty un-sexy.
Watch it if you want. If not, no worries.
I have never forgot it. It is not on YouTube, and I couldn't figure out any way to embed it, so if you want to see what I'm talking about, you'll have to follow the link.
I guess it doesn't really matter. Truth be told, I don't really care if no one bothers to click on the link and watch the video. Life is busy, we all have plenty to do.
I'll take it a step further and say...that I'm not even going to say...that you SHOULD watch this video. You 'shouldn't' do anything. I will tell you that it wouldn't hurt to watch it; it might do you some good.
As stated, I have never forgot this film, though I'm not sure what it was that inspired me to run a Google search on it this evening. A portly old gentleman, working his crossing-guard post 10 years ago. Who knows if Leroy is still around today? The kids in the video are graduating from high school. Some of them might remember him, most of them probably don't. I can almost guarantee that none of them remember his name.
It would be nice to say that this video was one of those "beauty of the everyday, find the hidden artistic side of being old and having little to do, I want to help you change your life...." sort of endeavors... but... it isn't.
I love it because....
Gosh, I don't know.
Because it was made with so much love. This is charity at its finest. Ben Unguren wasn't trying to make a hero out of Leroy. I'm not really sure he was trying to do much of anything. It is pretty unpolished. It is as it is.
Don't think I'm stupid enough to think that this is "Unbiased" or just a "slice of life" with no artistic lens on it. That would not even be possible. (No Unobstructed Views, remember?) But it does do a good job at getting closer to the heart of the issue, to the heart of a (possibly) lonely old man. It does a better job than a lot of what you probably see.
Is Leroy a hero anyway? Probably. I'm sure he was for someone, somewhere.
I guess he becomes a hero to me every time I think of his words that close the clip.
"Well. I guess it's about time to go home and plant my tree. I'll never live to get any shade out of it, but I'll go home and plant it.
What are you going to do when you leave here?"
No judgment, no nod towards striving to be inspirational. It is pretty raw, pretty unsalted, pretty un-sexy.
Watch it if you want. If not, no worries.
You {Me}-- A Study: Adventure
I think you could kind of tell that 12:30 a.m. was not the time I wanted to be negotiating with the employees of a just-barely-closed-for-the-night Wendy's to give you a frosty. A nobler woman than I once said that "Angry people are not always wise."- (Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice). I think the same can be said for exhausted people, so I let you have at it on your own. As you walked in, I depressed the 'recline' button on my seat in the car and thought that maybe if I fell asleep fast enough, I could dream that I was already warm in bed, instead of out here, chasing down icey treats at all hours.
It didn't take you long to get nowhere with the Wendy's employee. She was probably dreaming of bed herself.
"She pointed me in the direction of a McDonald's. It's not far"
I had been nodding off in the theatre, but had found a second wind in stepping outside. Unfortunately, the second-wind had long been used-up by the time we drove into the next city and back. I don't think bed has ever called my name so loudly.
I bit my tongue.
On to McDonald's we went.
The poor fellow working at the drive-in at that unearthly hour got more than he bargained for when we pulled up to the microphone to place our order.
"Yeah, how are the Rolo shakes?" you asked.
"It's a McFlurry. And we're out of the Rolo ones."
I don't think you heard him.
"Yeah, I was hoping to get a Rolo shake tonight."
"They're McFlurries and we don't have any of the Rolo ones right now."
I guess you still didn't catch his correction.
"Ok. Between the Oreo and the M&M shake, which do you prefer?"
"They're McFlurries."
By this point I was ready to crawl in the window, box the employee's ears, and make one myself. I didn't understand in the least why the young man felt that such impertinence was necessary, when all I wanted was to get some sleep.
"OK. Can I get an Oreo shake?"
He didn't argue you on that one, and I thanked the gods of the fast food industries as you pulled forward to the first window. While we sat there, the magical moment of 12:45 am tolled. You know, the moment where everything suddenly becomes side-splittingly hysterical; things that, 25 minutes earlier, may not have even merited a smile?
We sat there, at that window, and I don't know what made me think of it, but I couldn't help but bring it up.
"Did you take a look at that sign in the Diner tonight? The one that said, 'Come Again!'" I made quotation marks with my fingers in the air when I spoke to indicate exactly how the sign had been written.
I finished my thought. "I don't get it. What is the point of the quotation marks!? They are completely unnecessary!"
You were right behind me, and by then, we were already giggling more than the silly grammatical error had warranted.
"You know, it's like my old gramps used to say. 'Come Again!'"
We lost it.
There in the McDonalds drive-through, I temporarily lost my sanity. It was only made more funny by the fact that a few moments later our favorite employee stuck his head out of a window a few yards in front us, trying to see if we were coming for our "shake".
We were at the wrong window.
I am 100% sure he thought we were drunks, which was all just as well. I never will be drunk in my life, and, you know, you've got to get your kicks in somehow.
The point is, had we been sleeping at that moment, the one thing I thought I really wanted, I would not be writing this little anecdote. Your sense of adventure has always been such an inspiration to me; not in seeking midnight sweets, but in making life what you want it to be, and not letting little annoyances get in your way. You've always treated me as though I were endowed with that same unquenchable desire for adventure, and for fulfilling all of my dreams in-spite of the inevitable difficulties that arise in trying to do so.
If there is one thing I need a little more of in my life, it's that attitude. Thank you.
It didn't take you long to get nowhere with the Wendy's employee. She was probably dreaming of bed herself.
"She pointed me in the direction of a McDonald's. It's not far"
I had been nodding off in the theatre, but had found a second wind in stepping outside. Unfortunately, the second-wind had long been used-up by the time we drove into the next city and back. I don't think bed has ever called my name so loudly.
I bit my tongue.
On to McDonald's we went.
The poor fellow working at the drive-in at that unearthly hour got more than he bargained for when we pulled up to the microphone to place our order.
"Yeah, how are the Rolo shakes?" you asked.
"It's a McFlurry. And we're out of the Rolo ones."
I don't think you heard him.
"Yeah, I was hoping to get a Rolo shake tonight."
"They're McFlurries and we don't have any of the Rolo ones right now."
I guess you still didn't catch his correction.
"Ok. Between the Oreo and the M&M shake, which do you prefer?"
"They're McFlurries."
By this point I was ready to crawl in the window, box the employee's ears, and make one myself. I didn't understand in the least why the young man felt that such impertinence was necessary, when all I wanted was to get some sleep.
"OK. Can I get an Oreo shake?"
He didn't argue you on that one, and I thanked the gods of the fast food industries as you pulled forward to the first window. While we sat there, the magical moment of 12:45 am tolled. You know, the moment where everything suddenly becomes side-splittingly hysterical; things that, 25 minutes earlier, may not have even merited a smile?
We sat there, at that window, and I don't know what made me think of it, but I couldn't help but bring it up.
"Did you take a look at that sign in the Diner tonight? The one that said, 'Come Again!'" I made quotation marks with my fingers in the air when I spoke to indicate exactly how the sign had been written.
I finished my thought. "I don't get it. What is the point of the quotation marks!? They are completely unnecessary!"
You were right behind me, and by then, we were already giggling more than the silly grammatical error had warranted.
"You know, it's like my old gramps used to say. 'Come Again!'"
We lost it.
There in the McDonalds drive-through, I temporarily lost my sanity. It was only made more funny by the fact that a few moments later our favorite employee stuck his head out of a window a few yards in front us, trying to see if we were coming for our "shake".
We were at the wrong window.
I am 100% sure he thought we were drunks, which was all just as well. I never will be drunk in my life, and, you know, you've got to get your kicks in somehow.
The point is, had we been sleeping at that moment, the one thing I thought I really wanted, I would not be writing this little anecdote. Your sense of adventure has always been such an inspiration to me; not in seeking midnight sweets, but in making life what you want it to be, and not letting little annoyances get in your way. You've always treated me as though I were endowed with that same unquenchable desire for adventure, and for fulfilling all of my dreams in-spite of the inevitable difficulties that arise in trying to do so.
If there is one thing I need a little more of in my life, it's that attitude. Thank you.
An Hundred Roads Diverged in a Yellow Wood...
"I shall be telling this with a sigh,
somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-"
-Robert Frost "The Road Not Taken"
If only it really were TWO roads that diverged.
If only it weren't a proverbial web, spreading out in all of those directions.
Incomprehensible,
Without bounds,
Overwhelming in its multiplicity,
Paralyzing in its possibility.
If only it didn't always have to be told with a sigh.
Years ago, I sat on the couch of a familiar little apartment in Provo, UT and had the following conversation with my best friend:
Me: Sometimes I wish that life were less like life and more like a Choose Your Own Adventure book.
Her: So that you could go back and put your thumb in it.
Did you ever do that, reader? I put more than a thumb in it. I would keep one digit between the pages of every decision I made. It always seemed as though it would be so easy to back-track if I became dissatisfied with the ending of my story, (eg if I fell down an old well and was never heard from again) so painless, so possible.
Sometimes, in my adulthood, I almost feel that same sense of possibility. Just imagine me! I still have ten digits between my two hands, and I still assert that I can recognize when an important moment is transpiring. I still have the urge to put a finger here, a finger there, to mark pivotal points, as if marking them can save me from the consequences of them.
But Oh! how those moments eat at us in the days, weeks, months, years to come: those momentous moments we mark as having transpired right before everything came crashing down. It is very probable that these "moments" are not even related to specific personal decisions. Maybe they were the products of elemental circumstances, or the decisions of someone else. In cases such as these, must we trace back further to avoid undesired consequences? Where is it then? That wrong decision? Where can we find the moment in which the stupid decision was made that led to all of this insanity?
In the seeming impossibility of tracing the genesis of the "mistake", which moment do we pin as the fatal one? If you could only go back once, trying to avoid ultimate tragedy, which moment would you choose? What if the turning point really comes in your reaction to the choices, or in your reaction to the set of circumstances, (which reactions become little choices that accumulate over time)?
What moment do we save so that we can re-visit later? Do we mark all of them and then choose once the final blow has been administered, or is that when it is already too late? Which choices only feel important, and may end up having little bearing on the outcome? Which ones seem insignificant but may rock the very foundations upon which we have built our everything?
In the final few paragraphs of what I consider to be one of the most moving novels I have ever had occasion to read on the subject of love, author David Levithan writes the following as a sort of definition for the noun Zenith:
"I'm standing in the bathroom, drying my hands on your towel, and you're hovering in the kitchen. I am happy from dinner, happy the day is over, and before I can ask you what's going on, you tell me there's something we need to talk about.
This is it, the moment before you tell me the precise thing I don't want to know.
Is this the zenith? This last moment of ignorance?
Or does it come much later?" -David Levithan "The Lover's Dictionary"
The truth is, however much we want to protect ourselves, at the end of the day, we only have ten fingers. That is not nearly enough to keep a marker on all of the potentially-life-altering moments. As if this realization is not dis-heartening enough, it is also true that the more fingers you have marking pages, the less you have available to use to turn new pages forward, the more frazzled you become, the more confused.
There comes a time when you have to take your fingers out of the page, when you have to acknowledge that no one is allowed to live outside of circumstance. No one is allowed to live non-linearly. No one is allowed to take every path, wish as we may, try as we might.
"I wish we could take every path.
I could spend a hundred years
Adoring you.
Yes, I wish we could take every path,
Because I hated to close
the door on you.
And I have never known the plan.
It's been a long, long time.
How are you?
Your eyes are green. Your hair is gold.
Your hair is black. Your eyes are blue.
I closed the ranks, and I doubled back--
but, you know, I hated to close
the dog-gone door on you.
-Joanna Newsom "Baby Birch"
somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-"
-Robert Frost "The Road Not Taken"
If only it really were TWO roads that diverged.
If only it weren't a proverbial web, spreading out in all of those directions.
Incomprehensible,
Without bounds,
Overwhelming in its multiplicity,
Paralyzing in its possibility.
If only it didn't always have to be told with a sigh.
Years ago, I sat on the couch of a familiar little apartment in Provo, UT and had the following conversation with my best friend:
Me: Sometimes I wish that life were less like life and more like a Choose Your Own Adventure book.
Her: So that you could go back and put your thumb in it.
Did you ever do that, reader? I put more than a thumb in it. I would keep one digit between the pages of every decision I made. It always seemed as though it would be so easy to back-track if I became dissatisfied with the ending of my story, (eg if I fell down an old well and was never heard from again) so painless, so possible.
Sometimes, in my adulthood, I almost feel that same sense of possibility. Just imagine me! I still have ten digits between my two hands, and I still assert that I can recognize when an important moment is transpiring. I still have the urge to put a finger here, a finger there, to mark pivotal points, as if marking them can save me from the consequences of them.
But Oh! how those moments eat at us in the days, weeks, months, years to come: those momentous moments we mark as having transpired right before everything came crashing down. It is very probable that these "moments" are not even related to specific personal decisions. Maybe they were the products of elemental circumstances, or the decisions of someone else. In cases such as these, must we trace back further to avoid undesired consequences? Where is it then? That wrong decision? Where can we find the moment in which the stupid decision was made that led to all of this insanity?
In the seeming impossibility of tracing the genesis of the "mistake", which moment do we pin as the fatal one? If you could only go back once, trying to avoid ultimate tragedy, which moment would you choose? What if the turning point really comes in your reaction to the choices, or in your reaction to the set of circumstances, (which reactions become little choices that accumulate over time)?
What moment do we save so that we can re-visit later? Do we mark all of them and then choose once the final blow has been administered, or is that when it is already too late? Which choices only feel important, and may end up having little bearing on the outcome? Which ones seem insignificant but may rock the very foundations upon which we have built our everything?
In the final few paragraphs of what I consider to be one of the most moving novels I have ever had occasion to read on the subject of love, author David Levithan writes the following as a sort of definition for the noun Zenith:
"I'm standing in the bathroom, drying my hands on your towel, and you're hovering in the kitchen. I am happy from dinner, happy the day is over, and before I can ask you what's going on, you tell me there's something we need to talk about.
This is it, the moment before you tell me the precise thing I don't want to know.
Is this the zenith? This last moment of ignorance?
Or does it come much later?" -David Levithan "The Lover's Dictionary"
The truth is, however much we want to protect ourselves, at the end of the day, we only have ten fingers. That is not nearly enough to keep a marker on all of the potentially-life-altering moments. As if this realization is not dis-heartening enough, it is also true that the more fingers you have marking pages, the less you have available to use to turn new pages forward, the more frazzled you become, the more confused.
There comes a time when you have to take your fingers out of the page, when you have to acknowledge that no one is allowed to live outside of circumstance. No one is allowed to live non-linearly. No one is allowed to take every path, wish as we may, try as we might.
"I wish we could take every path.
I could spend a hundred years
Adoring you.
Yes, I wish we could take every path,
Because I hated to close
the door on you.
And I have never known the plan.
It's been a long, long time.
How are you?
Your eyes are green. Your hair is gold.
Your hair is black. Your eyes are blue.
I closed the ranks, and I doubled back--
but, you know, I hated to close
the dog-gone door on you.
-Joanna Newsom "Baby Birch"
Vabagond: On Home
Home. Home is a fire, a burning reminder, of where we belong, love. With walls built up around us, the bricks make me nervous, they're only so strong, love. Plates they will shift, houses will shake, fences will drift, we will awake, only to find, nothing's the same as yesterday.
-Death Cab for Cutie "Home is a Fire"
-Death Cab for Cutie "Home is a Fire"
I have been slightly homeless as of late. Not that my family isn't taking care of me, that's not a problem. In fact, the problem has less to do with a lack of a physical center as much as it does a lack of some emotional centrality. Allow me to give a bit of back story. You see, I am currently living between two cities that are about an hours drive from one another. Seeing as how this particular epoch is following one of bumming off of some friends on their couch, in their home office, etc, for a few weeks, it gives a particular sort of ambiance to my life that I find both liberating and dissolving, diluting--depleting, perhaps. What a paradox. As I come to know my own self, and find respite in 'doing my own thing', I almost have a sense of a dissolving, diluting, and depleting of the things that once held a great deal of value to me. It is like pouring liquid from one vessel to another. One fills while the other depletes. There is no replenishing effect at work.
Yesterday morning I boarded a plane in San Francisco that was bound for Long Beach with a connection to SLC. As the plane taxied around the runways, I decided to listen to Death Cab for Cutie's latest album "Codes and Keys" in its entirety. I bought that album a while back, during a very different time in my life, and have connected with the album a very distinct and vivid set of memories. As the music and then lyrics of the first song (quoted above) came through my headphones, I let the rhythm drive the words into me, and began to think about the concept of "home". What does "home" mean? Really. What does it mean? People have been writing about it, speaking about it, singing about it for centuries, so what has anyone actually learned? A few contemporary music examples that immediately come to my mind follow here:
Another summer day
Has come and gone away
In Paris and Rome,
But I wanna go home
Mmm I've got to go home.
-Michael Buble "Home"
Well I'm going home,
To the place where I belong,
Where your love has always been enough for me...
These places and these faces are getting old,
So I'm going home.
-Daughtry "Home"
Peel the scars from off my back.
I don't need them anymore.
You can throw them out or keep them in your Mason jars.
I've come home.
-Radical Face "Welcome Home"
Of course I cannot forget what is, perhaps, the most personally poignant of all of the songs dealing with the concept of home. It has particularly been on my mind as of late for various reasons:
And I have torn my soul apart from
pulling artlessly with fool commands.
Some nights
I just never go to sleep at all,
And I stand,
Shaking in the doorway like a sentinel,
All alone,
Bracing like the bow upon a ship,
And fully abandoning
Any thought of anywhere
But home,
My home.
Sometimes I can almost feel the power.
And I do love you.
Is it only timing,
That has made it such a dark hour,
Only ever chiming out,
"Cuckoo, cuckoo"?
-Joanna Newsom "In California"
I have learned from my own experience, as well as the experience of artists, that home is infinitely more complicated than we wish it were. Kitschy phrases like "home is where the heart is" have so little meaning for me now, in this odd stage of my life.
Ingrid Michaelson seems to agree with me on that point:
They say that home is where the heart is. I guess I haven't found my home. We keep driving round in circles, afraid to call this place our own. Are we there yet?
-Ingrid Michaelson "Are We There Yet?"
-Ingrid Michaelson "Are We There Yet?"
How am I to use my heart as a compass when I am not even sure where my heart is? I guess I am learning the hard way that you're never really lost until you've lost your compass. Is that irreparable? I'd like to think that it can be redeemed. I'd like to think it could be fixed, but I do not know where to begin. I will illustrate with a story.
Last Sunday I attended a church meeting to support a friend of mine who recently completed an LDS mission in Latin America. Her house happens to be close to the house where I lived when I started high school. When my family left that place, we put in a lot of renovation work, so I take a certain pride in the off-beat beauty of it. I would describe it as a quirky house; blue with an interesting slanted roof, but there is a small wrap-around porch and a lovely three-paneled white door. I drove by the old house on my way out of town; drove around it several times as a matter of fact, circling the neighborhood, listening to "In California". Those brief minutes were filled to overflowing with thoughts, feelings and emotions. I pondered the very musings that are finding public voice here, as well as a more concrete realization: how can you say a house is just a house? I don't think it is. That wood is in my blood. I worked for that place, so many long hours, and I cried and cried at the thought of beautifying it just to sell it and leave it. It isn't 'just a house', for as I drove by, I saw a little piece of myself in it.
The problem is, that is not a piece I can retrieve. It does not belong to me any more than any part of that house does. The family that lives there now seemed, judging by the outside decor, enthusiastic about the ensuing holiday. They were probably inside, listening to music, surfing the web, making lunch. They were blissfully unaware of my small agony as I circled, as I thought, as I wished.
And so it is with many houses, and people, and situations, and dreams, we leave them and they take little pieces of our hearts with them, and we hope that in our generosity we do not deplete the essence of who we are.
I retract. It is not born of generosity, but of necessity. The necessity to be a part of that which is around us. The necessity to give of what we are to what we are not, in the hopes that what we are not will become more like we are and what we are will become more like what we are not.
You say you're not interested in that sort of an exchange? To that I would reply that we can try to keep things from changing us, but we will find that in doing so, we are a great deal more than simply selfish, we are delusional. We come to this world to change, and to be changed. There is no place for holding tight to everything that we feel we "are".
I am changing. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes (like now) I feel that I have given away too many bits of myself, and that in my inability to reclaim those pieces, I am somehow rendered un-whole. I am still waiting on redemption. I am still waiting on a reciprocation that will make up for all of the missing pieces. Perhaps home is where the very most of you is collected. Perhaps home is your head, where all of the memories are stored. I do not merely want to look at home as a concept, more than a place. I have to. I have to see home non-conventionally in my present circumstances. Home as a state of being. Home as a little box of all of my most treasured memories. Home as a place of personal and powerful worship.
I want to experience a new level of worship, of love. A love that allows me to pour my heart out and find it filling to the brim in return. I want to change in the holiest of all avenues of change: the give and take, the ebb and flow, the exchange, the barter between a human being and that someone/something they love, that someone/something they dedicate to, in every moment, waking, sleeping, breathing, fighting, living, dying...
And when I come up for air, and glance around, I want to find that the object of that love is Home; and know that I have found it at last.
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You {Me}--A Study: Genuineness
To you, my friend, I would draw your attention to the first time we ever 'hung out' (for lack of a better phrase). Sometimes those are the memories that catch our attention in retrospect, because we see later that they come to be indicative of the whole of the budding friendship. Of course at times we do not "click" with someone right away, yet find later that we have developed a wonderful and fulfilling friendship with that person. That is valuable, and it is beautiful that such can happen.
I am not talking of one of those times here, for there are other types of 'first-time-we-hung-out-together's that are just....magic. Unforgettable.
We had a mutual class, and I was planning to spend one particular evening watching a movie to get research material for an approaching paper in said class. That afternoon, we fell into a conversation as we walked out of lecture, and I mentioned what my evening's activities would entail. You said you had been wanting to see that particular film, so I invited you over.
When you came, I was in the middle of making some collaboration to eat for dinner. This was lucky, for that is what gave us time to fall into chatting yet again. For me, it was one of those conversation where you cut right through all of the formalities, and get straight to the heart of who the other person is. It is rare that I feel I truly KNOW someone after hanging out once, but such it was. Of course, it is terribly unfair to assert that I had a true knowledge of your character, hopes, dreams, etc from one (albeit, lengthy) conversation. If this concerns you, rightly so. I will clarify. I suppose what I really knew was that you were in possession of a rare sort of genuineness.
What else do you need to see to feel you really know someone?
Think of it! When you know someone is genuine, you know the interactions that pass between you and them will be genuine; that they will always strive to present themselves as they really are. It takes a great deal of confidence to be as open as you are. Do not mistake what I am trying to say by my lack of a better set of vocabulary words. By 'open' I do not mean that you told me about your ailments, showed me your family tree, related to me details about your first kiss, and gave a faithful narrative of all of your most embarrassing moments. I mean that you embodied an ease, a frankness--a sort of rare, unguarded, way of looking at yourself and others. It was a quality that hinted at its innateness, unpracticed and natural. You do not know how well you do it, I am sure.
Looking back, trying to get in touch with myself, with you, with us as we were that evening in July 2010, looking past and through all that has happened since then until now, I can't help but ask myself: why are we as human beings so constantly on our guard? Who has hurt us so irreparably? What gross breach of humanity has made us feel that everyone is out to get us?
The answer: I do not know. I guess we all have our own story. Perhaps you, at some point, decided not to let your "story" keep you from maintaining a frankness with others who would learn from your example. I so admire you for it.
If you need further proof that this night had an impact on me, I would draw your attention here to an old post on this very blog, where I wrote about that week, including a line about the evening described here.
There we were. You, me, Johnny, Muffa (I never will know how to spell that), that red towel, the pasta...
I miss that night. I miss you. Thank you for your genuineness. A little of that goes a long way in our human interactions. A very long way.
I am not talking of one of those times here, for there are other types of 'first-time-we-hung-out-together's that are just....magic. Unforgettable.
We had a mutual class, and I was planning to spend one particular evening watching a movie to get research material for an approaching paper in said class. That afternoon, we fell into a conversation as we walked out of lecture, and I mentioned what my evening's activities would entail. You said you had been wanting to see that particular film, so I invited you over.
When you came, I was in the middle of making some collaboration to eat for dinner. This was lucky, for that is what gave us time to fall into chatting yet again. For me, it was one of those conversation where you cut right through all of the formalities, and get straight to the heart of who the other person is. It is rare that I feel I truly KNOW someone after hanging out once, but such it was. Of course, it is terribly unfair to assert that I had a true knowledge of your character, hopes, dreams, etc from one (albeit, lengthy) conversation. If this concerns you, rightly so. I will clarify. I suppose what I really knew was that you were in possession of a rare sort of genuineness.
What else do you need to see to feel you really know someone?
Think of it! When you know someone is genuine, you know the interactions that pass between you and them will be genuine; that they will always strive to present themselves as they really are. It takes a great deal of confidence to be as open as you are. Do not mistake what I am trying to say by my lack of a better set of vocabulary words. By 'open' I do not mean that you told me about your ailments, showed me your family tree, related to me details about your first kiss, and gave a faithful narrative of all of your most embarrassing moments. I mean that you embodied an ease, a frankness--a sort of rare, unguarded, way of looking at yourself and others. It was a quality that hinted at its innateness, unpracticed and natural. You do not know how well you do it, I am sure.
Looking back, trying to get in touch with myself, with you, with us as we were that evening in July 2010, looking past and through all that has happened since then until now, I can't help but ask myself: why are we as human beings so constantly on our guard? Who has hurt us so irreparably? What gross breach of humanity has made us feel that everyone is out to get us?
The answer: I do not know. I guess we all have our own story. Perhaps you, at some point, decided not to let your "story" keep you from maintaining a frankness with others who would learn from your example. I so admire you for it.
If you need further proof that this night had an impact on me, I would draw your attention here to an old post on this very blog, where I wrote about that week, including a line about the evening described here.
There we were. You, me, Johnny, Muffa (I never will know how to spell that), that red towel, the pasta...
I miss that night. I miss you. Thank you for your genuineness. A little of that goes a long way in our human interactions. A very long way.
Drawing a Picture of God: Or, Why I Hate the Radio
The world is so loud.
So loud.
I hate it sometimes.
As in TRULY hate. I mean, sometimes my stomach hurts with the mayhem of it all.
I have begun this habit of gallivanting about. It is quite enjoyable, and so easy. I simply get myself in my car and I drive to a town that has an interesting town center. Then I park the car somewhere and start wandering the streets, in and out of shops: antique stores, boutiques, bakeries, book stores, whatever the town/city has to offer that appeals to my aesthetic, and-- occasionally --my taste-buds. For the most part I merely window-shop, but every now and again I'll buy something that catches my eye.
Perhaps in the schema of good/better/best, there are other "better" and "best" things that I could do with my hours off in the afternoon.
Yet, that depends on how you look at it. I think that good/better/best varies greatly depending on what time of life you are in, and your circumstances. I think that considering my current short-term employment (that of a nanny, rocking a small child most of the day) getting outside is probably best for me. Well. Better. Best would probably be if I went outside and gave homeless people peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches.
I digress.
Let me set up a scene: Friday afternoon. Me: roaming about American Fork. Rain is falling, I have yet to purchase a $5 umbrella from Wal Mart. I have just left lunch with some dear friends and I wander into a new boutique. The store is quite pleasant, yet I can't help but notice how unpleasant it is that they are playing the radio, from which is emanating a... how shall I say this?.... HIDEOUS piece of cacophonous trash. Music? Annoyingly catchy. Lyrics? To translate from dumb to dumber "sex, sex, sex, you and me, sex, sex, stupid 1960's/70's music reference that we're using to pretend to be smart in some way, sex, sex.... that's all we care about... and if that's not carnal enough, we don't even have the decency to talk about it in some meritorious/adult/reverential way...."
I was incredibly annoyed, and by that I mean, it made my stomach hurt.
Why do we as human beings listen to stuff like that?! Why does that disgusting music video have five trillion hits on YouTube?! What do people see/hear in such heinosity? There is nothing of merit or interest there. Even worse is the pseudo-art craze in music, where people think that there is something of art in something just because it is weird. I mean, since when do diamond-studded-skimpery, meat dresses, and telephone hats NOT mean art? (sarcasm alert!). Lyric translation of 95% of such music: "sex, sex, sex, or, How Many Times Can a Girl Type that Word in One Middle-of-the-Night Rampage?"
Perhaps a better question is: why do images of the roman Colosseum and centuries upon centuries of prostitution come to mind when I rampage on this topic?
Entertainment in debauchery. Profit in the marketing of the otherwise sacred. What moments in life are more sacred than sex and death? Why do we think we can make mindless entertainment of them and call it art?
Have I mentioned I HATE the radio?
I hate it.
HATE.
This rampage brings to mind a beautiful bit of lyric from a true musical prodigy:
Why do we listen to music that dulls our senses instead of enlivens them? Why do we treat it as a drug instead of an art? Oh yeah. Because it is about a million times easier to not think than it is to think. Forget trying to catch meaningful references to literature/other music/art in general/culture/politics/history, thereby joining the conversation about life/the human experience/what it means to be us/etc. that has been going on for centuries. Forget trying to improve the human condition and trying to better human life through uplifting the mind and elevating it to make connections/inferences/syntheses and find, well, for lack of less frequently used terms: Beauty and Truth.
Which, of course, leads to a usual quoting of one of my favorite passages from one of my favorite Romantics:
So why do so many "artists" create such mindless, not to mention, degrading products? Perhaps some of them really don't have what it takes to create something that appeals to a higher aesthetic. Or, perhaps they simply don't want to. I think that in many cases, it is because the masses do not want it. People want "easy". People don't want to have to think. I have been there, I know how that feels. Sometimes you want to stick your favorite "Veggie Tales" jams in and just have a good time.
That leads me to an interesting point. Is "Veggie Tales" wholesome entertainment? Well, I don't know. It is a mildly morally uplifting show. It's probably a bad example. Ok, and AHA! The "Christmas Shoes" song. worst.song.ever. Do you want to argue it? Just show up at the next family Christmas party my brother will be throwing this December. We will undoubtedly argue about the merits/non-merits of that song, which will undoubtedly lead to someone pulling it up on their phone, which will undoubtedly lead to us haters deciding to make a cover.... next year. The cover is always going to happen next year.
Ok, forget about stupid examples. I had the opportunity to take an art philosophy course from a man I admire. Dr. Travis Anderson in the BYU Philosophy department. He wrote a paper some years back on the question of the word "wholesome" when it applies to entertainment. Is something really WHOLESOME if it is merely devoid of questionable material? Are rice cakes really wholesome? Ok, I said I was going to be done with examples.
When I think of "wholesome" (thanks to Dr. Anderson's pointing it out), I think of enriching. Full of good, not just devoid of "bad". So veggies are wholesome, but maybe "Veggie Tales" aren't necessarily that wholesome.... oh yeah. They do have their veiled way of teaching morals. Ok, we'll let them stand. Wholesome. Fine.
But creativity is so rarely encouraged anymore. The public has told our "artists" what we want. We have commissioned the hideous work that now blares over our radios. If consumers didn't consume, producers would not produce. They would catch on. Or they would sing their debauchery to themselves in the comfort of their own homes.
There is a story, I heard it told in a TED talk I found on YouTube. It is by Sir Ken Robinson and is entitled "Do Schools Kill Creativity?". So said story is about a girl in a drawing class, who is uncharacteristically paying very close attention one day. When the teacher lets the kids loose to make their art, she walks up to this little girl and asks, "What are you drawing?" to which the girl replies, "I am drawing a picture of God." The teacher, bewildered, responds, "But nobody knows what God looks like." Confidently, the girl rebuttals with, "They will in a minute." That is a true artist. It doesn't matter if one isn't "supposed" to "know what God looks like." This brave little soul was going to show us God as she saw him, and it didn't matter that an authority was telling her she wasn't doing it right.
That is what great art has always been about. That is why Jackson Pollock will always be a genius, even though it's not too terribly hard to replicate what he did (well, that's debatable. People actually say that it is harder to replicate than one would think, which I am inclined to believe). Unless you have a time machine and can go back in time to beat him to it, you can never really replicate what he did, because what he did was so far removed from that paint-splattered canvas. It was a comment on art at the time. It was a comment on his life (a sad one, we are to understand). Who knows, but that he was drawing a picture of God. Perhaps that is what all true artists are doing. They are playing mini-gods in their own way. Gods who can control the sphere that they create in their art. As they create a world, they simultaneously construct a sort of commentary on that world. Thus, they are drawing pictures of God (the higher forces they see at work in the world), gods (themselves, the way they perceive the world/their lives), and character (animate or inanimate, a view on the things around them, other human beings, human nature, etc.). Oh, and I will say as an aside that if Pollock was drawing a picture of God, God cannot have found it to be incredibly flattering. Not in a literal sense, anyway.
So what I mean is that the whole "be true to yourself and your art" cliche is cliche for a reason. When someone with talent and ability is brave enough to do what is not being asked for, they often show us glimpses of the God we would cut ourselves off from (I happen to believe in a very literal God, the father of our souls, but if to you God is nature, or some other-worldly force, or the human intellect, etc. then that still fits in here) with all of our bars, prostitutes, and Christians being devoured by hungry lions. Not that great artists don't take us through some difficult places in the meantime. It's not always sunshine and bubbles. Sometimes we are led to where we would rather not trod. It is difficult, sometimes painful, but rewarding.
I need to get off of my soap box, I know. Some people actually like to let loose and have a little dance party.
And some of us just like to think, and over-think, and blog until 3 am.
Oh, I left myself in the boutique. Excuse me. I'll get back to that. I take my leave of the shop keeper and walk back out into the rain, and back into my car.
Then to recover I listen to this little beauty: (Joanna reminds me very much of the little girl in the story.)
and feel much, much better.
Oh, and as referenced:
and (I HIGHLY recommend this):
Good night.
So loud.
I hate it sometimes.
As in TRULY hate. I mean, sometimes my stomach hurts with the mayhem of it all.
I have begun this habit of gallivanting about. It is quite enjoyable, and so easy. I simply get myself in my car and I drive to a town that has an interesting town center. Then I park the car somewhere and start wandering the streets, in and out of shops: antique stores, boutiques, bakeries, book stores, whatever the town/city has to offer that appeals to my aesthetic, and-- occasionally --my taste-buds. For the most part I merely window-shop, but every now and again I'll buy something that catches my eye.
Perhaps in the schema of good/better/best, there are other "better" and "best" things that I could do with my hours off in the afternoon.
Yet, that depends on how you look at it. I think that good/better/best varies greatly depending on what time of life you are in, and your circumstances. I think that considering my current short-term employment (that of a nanny, rocking a small child most of the day) getting outside is probably best for me. Well. Better. Best would probably be if I went outside and gave homeless people peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches.
I digress.
Let me set up a scene: Friday afternoon. Me: roaming about American Fork. Rain is falling, I have yet to purchase a $5 umbrella from Wal Mart. I have just left lunch with some dear friends and I wander into a new boutique. The store is quite pleasant, yet I can't help but notice how unpleasant it is that they are playing the radio, from which is emanating a... how shall I say this?.... HIDEOUS piece of cacophonous trash. Music? Annoyingly catchy. Lyrics? To translate from dumb to dumber "sex, sex, sex, you and me, sex, sex, stupid 1960's/70's music reference that we're using to pretend to be smart in some way, sex, sex.... that's all we care about... and if that's not carnal enough, we don't even have the decency to talk about it in some meritorious/adult/reverential way...."
I was incredibly annoyed, and by that I mean, it made my stomach hurt.
Why do we as human beings listen to stuff like that?! Why does that disgusting music video have five trillion hits on YouTube?! What do people see/hear in such heinosity? There is nothing of merit or interest there. Even worse is the pseudo-art craze in music, where people think that there is something of art in something just because it is weird. I mean, since when do diamond-studded-skimpery, meat dresses, and telephone hats NOT mean art? (sarcasm alert!). Lyric translation of 95% of such music: "sex, sex, sex, or, How Many Times Can a Girl Type that Word in One Middle-of-the-Night Rampage?"
Perhaps a better question is: why do images of the roman Colosseum and centuries upon centuries of prostitution come to mind when I rampage on this topic?
Entertainment in debauchery. Profit in the marketing of the otherwise sacred. What moments in life are more sacred than sex and death? Why do we think we can make mindless entertainment of them and call it art?
Have I mentioned I HATE the radio?
I hate it.
HATE.
This rampage brings to mind a beautiful bit of lyric from a true musical prodigy:
"You spend your whole life trying to fall behind. You're using your headphones to drown out your mind." -Regina Spektor "Eet"
Why do we listen to music that dulls our senses instead of enlivens them? Why do we treat it as a drug instead of an art? Oh yeah. Because it is about a million times easier to not think than it is to think. Forget trying to catch meaningful references to literature/other music/art in general/culture/politics/history, thereby joining the conversation about life/the human experience/what it means to be us/etc. that has been going on for centuries. Forget trying to improve the human condition and trying to better human life through uplifting the mind and elevating it to make connections/inferences/syntheses and find, well, for lack of less frequently used terms: Beauty and Truth.
Which, of course, leads to a usual quoting of one of my favorite passages from one of my favorite Romantics:
- "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," – that is all
- Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
- -John Keats "Ode on a Grecian Urn"
So why do so many "artists" create such mindless, not to mention, degrading products? Perhaps some of them really don't have what it takes to create something that appeals to a higher aesthetic. Or, perhaps they simply don't want to. I think that in many cases, it is because the masses do not want it. People want "easy". People don't want to have to think. I have been there, I know how that feels. Sometimes you want to stick your favorite "Veggie Tales" jams in and just have a good time.
That leads me to an interesting point. Is "Veggie Tales" wholesome entertainment? Well, I don't know. It is a mildly morally uplifting show. It's probably a bad example. Ok, and AHA! The "Christmas Shoes" song. worst.song.ever. Do you want to argue it? Just show up at the next family Christmas party my brother will be throwing this December. We will undoubtedly argue about the merits/non-merits of that song, which will undoubtedly lead to someone pulling it up on their phone, which will undoubtedly lead to us haters deciding to make a cover.... next year. The cover is always going to happen next year.
Ok, forget about stupid examples. I had the opportunity to take an art philosophy course from a man I admire. Dr. Travis Anderson in the BYU Philosophy department. He wrote a paper some years back on the question of the word "wholesome" when it applies to entertainment. Is something really WHOLESOME if it is merely devoid of questionable material? Are rice cakes really wholesome? Ok, I said I was going to be done with examples.
When I think of "wholesome" (thanks to Dr. Anderson's pointing it out), I think of enriching. Full of good, not just devoid of "bad". So veggies are wholesome, but maybe "Veggie Tales" aren't necessarily that wholesome.... oh yeah. They do have their veiled way of teaching morals. Ok, we'll let them stand. Wholesome. Fine.
But creativity is so rarely encouraged anymore. The public has told our "artists" what we want. We have commissioned the hideous work that now blares over our radios. If consumers didn't consume, producers would not produce. They would catch on. Or they would sing their debauchery to themselves in the comfort of their own homes.
There is a story, I heard it told in a TED talk I found on YouTube. It is by Sir Ken Robinson and is entitled "Do Schools Kill Creativity?". So said story is about a girl in a drawing class, who is uncharacteristically paying very close attention one day. When the teacher lets the kids loose to make their art, she walks up to this little girl and asks, "What are you drawing?" to which the girl replies, "I am drawing a picture of God." The teacher, bewildered, responds, "But nobody knows what God looks like." Confidently, the girl rebuttals with, "They will in a minute." That is a true artist. It doesn't matter if one isn't "supposed" to "know what God looks like." This brave little soul was going to show us God as she saw him, and it didn't matter that an authority was telling her she wasn't doing it right.
That is what great art has always been about. That is why Jackson Pollock will always be a genius, even though it's not too terribly hard to replicate what he did (well, that's debatable. People actually say that it is harder to replicate than one would think, which I am inclined to believe). Unless you have a time machine and can go back in time to beat him to it, you can never really replicate what he did, because what he did was so far removed from that paint-splattered canvas. It was a comment on art at the time. It was a comment on his life (a sad one, we are to understand). Who knows, but that he was drawing a picture of God. Perhaps that is what all true artists are doing. They are playing mini-gods in their own way. Gods who can control the sphere that they create in their art. As they create a world, they simultaneously construct a sort of commentary on that world. Thus, they are drawing pictures of God (the higher forces they see at work in the world), gods (themselves, the way they perceive the world/their lives), and character (animate or inanimate, a view on the things around them, other human beings, human nature, etc.). Oh, and I will say as an aside that if Pollock was drawing a picture of God, God cannot have found it to be incredibly flattering. Not in a literal sense, anyway.
So what I mean is that the whole "be true to yourself and your art" cliche is cliche for a reason. When someone with talent and ability is brave enough to do what is not being asked for, they often show us glimpses of the God we would cut ourselves off from (I happen to believe in a very literal God, the father of our souls, but if to you God is nature, or some other-worldly force, or the human intellect, etc. then that still fits in here) with all of our bars, prostitutes, and Christians being devoured by hungry lions. Not that great artists don't take us through some difficult places in the meantime. It's not always sunshine and bubbles. Sometimes we are led to where we would rather not trod. It is difficult, sometimes painful, but rewarding.
I need to get off of my soap box, I know. Some people actually like to let loose and have a little dance party.
And some of us just like to think, and over-think, and blog until 3 am.
Oh, I left myself in the boutique. Excuse me. I'll get back to that. I take my leave of the shop keeper and walk back out into the rain, and back into my car.
Then to recover I listen to this little beauty: (Joanna reminds me very much of the little girl in the story.)
and feel much, much better.
Oh, and as referenced:
and (I HIGHLY recommend this):
Good night.
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You {Me}-- A Study: Creativity
It was official. We had decided to be friends, and to make a film. It was going to be epic.
So I walked over to your house, video camera in hand, and we set to work.
Talking.
And Talking some more.
I loved that evening. Others coming in and out of the room, joining and disassembling at intervals--despite our best-laid plans, we couldn't seem to stop talking. Too busy creating a scene of human interaction to concentrate on our art.
Now that we have grown older, I am repeatedly amazed at your ability to create. Time and distance have worn the edges of that memory a bit, and I guess if we had made a film, I would have had that artifact to remind myself of how our voices sounded then, what clothes we wore, the references we used, the music we enjoyed...
I see in that the difficulties in such a photo-journalistic approach to art. Some will say the intent of the still and video camera was to capture memories. Indeed, that is how these instruments are widely used. Polaroid, Cannon, Nikon, Sony... they all instill in us a desperation to need to capture every moment in some media in order to remember those aspects our minds will toss out while we sleep.
I guess they have a point--if we insist on details. If we must remember every nit-picky thing that would otherwise be lost to us, then a camera will certainly be a necessary tool. But, what if what we want to remember is something akin to an instance of kinetic energy? The gathering force of a budding friendship. That feeling of a mounting conversation, back and forth; two young people, for a moment, too enthusiastic about life to remember to record it.
So, years later, I record the leftovers of it here. Thank you for teaching me about creativity then, and so many times since then--you truly are an inspiration, and I wish you the best of luck in all of your creative endeavors.
Here is to the film we never filmed. Perhaps it has become one of our greatest works despite our childish neglect of its craft.
So I walked over to your house, video camera in hand, and we set to work.
Talking.
And Talking some more.
I loved that evening. Others coming in and out of the room, joining and disassembling at intervals--despite our best-laid plans, we couldn't seem to stop talking. Too busy creating a scene of human interaction to concentrate on our art.
Now that we have grown older, I am repeatedly amazed at your ability to create. Time and distance have worn the edges of that memory a bit, and I guess if we had made a film, I would have had that artifact to remind myself of how our voices sounded then, what clothes we wore, the references we used, the music we enjoyed...
I see in that the difficulties in such a photo-journalistic approach to art. Some will say the intent of the still and video camera was to capture memories. Indeed, that is how these instruments are widely used. Polaroid, Cannon, Nikon, Sony... they all instill in us a desperation to need to capture every moment in some media in order to remember those aspects our minds will toss out while we sleep.
I guess they have a point--if we insist on details. If we must remember every nit-picky thing that would otherwise be lost to us, then a camera will certainly be a necessary tool. But, what if what we want to remember is something akin to an instance of kinetic energy? The gathering force of a budding friendship. That feeling of a mounting conversation, back and forth; two young people, for a moment, too enthusiastic about life to remember to record it.
So, years later, I record the leftovers of it here. Thank you for teaching me about creativity then, and so many times since then--you truly are an inspiration, and I wish you the best of luck in all of your creative endeavors.
Here is to the film we never filmed. Perhaps it has become one of our greatest works despite our childish neglect of its craft.
You {Me}-- A Study: Confidence
I had saved that voice-mail on my phone for quite a while. The one where you were laughing so hard it took you a few tries to say what you were trying to say.
"It's not really a big deal, just call me when you can because I have a really funny story to tell you, and I know YOU'LL appreciate it."
I called you when I got off work and we had a great laugh together. It WAS a funny story, complete with an untimely google search and a certain someone. It was not the kind of story I would have had the guts to relate to anyone, and I was surprised you were willing to tell me. Surprised and grateful. Grateful for your confidence--for your letting me in. I need to be let in. To me it is proof that others have confidence in me. It gives ME confidence in me.
I know this little vignette may be a strange way to point out that you have confidence in yourself and in turn inspire it in others. Yet, that is where the truth lies; that confidence is in your make-up--the very fiber of your being.
Thank you for sharing it with me that day, but all of the others, before and after. I am profoundly grateful.
"It's not really a big deal, just call me when you can because I have a really funny story to tell you, and I know YOU'LL appreciate it."
I called you when I got off work and we had a great laugh together. It WAS a funny story, complete with an untimely google search and a certain someone. It was not the kind of story I would have had the guts to relate to anyone, and I was surprised you were willing to tell me. Surprised and grateful. Grateful for your confidence--for your letting me in. I need to be let in. To me it is proof that others have confidence in me. It gives ME confidence in me.
I know this little vignette may be a strange way to point out that you have confidence in yourself and in turn inspire it in others. Yet, that is where the truth lies; that confidence is in your make-up--the very fiber of your being.
Thank you for sharing it with me that day, but all of the others, before and after. I am profoundly grateful.
You {Me}--A Study: Spontaneity
What better place to start these strollings-down-memory-lane than on BYU campus?
My memories of this night are general: like boiling something down to its essence. As I boil, I pause to ponder the strangeness of it: this was a whole day in my life. I woke up that morning, and probably did not want to get out of bed. I probably had a few things on my plate that I wished weren't there. I probably interacted with several hands-full of people, did homework, put on makeup, ate three meals, combed my hair, picked up the apartment. I do not remember what time of year it was, or what was going on in my life, though I might presume that I was wandering campus to stave off some pending sense of insanity. So many problems that drove me to that fountain, and I continue to find myself there from time to time. Perhaps this instance--or worse, this day-- would have been forgotten,
had you not called.
"Where are you?" you asked.
A few minutes later, there you were, with a little snack, just to say hey.
I don't remember whose idea it was, but before long the two of us had peeled off our socks and began wading in the fountain. I'm sure that at the time I had some sense of "we're not supposed to be doing this." but did it really matter? We were just two friends, eating a snack, chatting, wading, unwinding. Life is serious enough, but what is really serious is living a whole day without doing one thing memorable.
Thank you for saving that day for me, packaged neatly as this snippet of a memory. Thank you for that little reminder to not to let myself turn the page over to a new day without putting a bit of red pencil on the one just completed. While we're on the subject of thanks, I think that said day thanks you as well.
My memories of this night are general: like boiling something down to its essence. As I boil, I pause to ponder the strangeness of it: this was a whole day in my life. I woke up that morning, and probably did not want to get out of bed. I probably had a few things on my plate that I wished weren't there. I probably interacted with several hands-full of people, did homework, put on makeup, ate three meals, combed my hair, picked up the apartment. I do not remember what time of year it was, or what was going on in my life, though I might presume that I was wandering campus to stave off some pending sense of insanity. So many problems that drove me to that fountain, and I continue to find myself there from time to time. Perhaps this instance--or worse, this day-- would have been forgotten,
had you not called.
"Where are you?" you asked.
A few minutes later, there you were, with a little snack, just to say hey.
I don't remember whose idea it was, but before long the two of us had peeled off our socks and began wading in the fountain. I'm sure that at the time I had some sense of "we're not supposed to be doing this." but did it really matter? We were just two friends, eating a snack, chatting, wading, unwinding. Life is serious enough, but what is really serious is living a whole day without doing one thing memorable.
Thank you for saving that day for me, packaged neatly as this snippet of a memory. Thank you for that little reminder to not to let myself turn the page over to a new day without putting a bit of red pencil on the one just completed. While we're on the subject of thanks, I think that said day thanks you as well.
You {Me}-- A Study-- Project Kick-Off
I once attended a church meeting.
Not news.
But this one in particular changed my life.
There was a guy there, not one I knew well, or have seen much since, though I run into him every now and again. He's a talented artist--one of those people you take an interest in, because they take such an interest in the world, you can't help but be drawn to that.
Anyway, he said something that day that I will never forget:
"I know God loves me because of the people he put in my life."
He said it, and I sat there, and let it sink in;
and it just kept sinking,
and sinking,
and sinking,
in the way that only such indelible truths can.
This project is a culmination of that, and it's going to be called:
You {Me}-- A Study
I just posted this on my Facebook:
While I realize that these posts will be interesting to those who I will write about, don't be fooled by some pretense of benevolence. I am doing this for myself. I want to explore what made me, me--the ways that people have influenced and shaped my life. This is deeply personal to me, and will probably end up saying much about how I view the world and other people, but I'm not planning on being libelous, so don't be afraid to let me in.
Think about it, the moment after we are born, our whole lives begin to take shape in relation to those around us. Thus "No man is an island" continues to be true, and will ever be true as long as God loves us-- which is a very long time indeed.
{Insert some Zen saying about how we come to be, only in our relation to others... anyone know any good ones? I tried to write one and pass it off as a legit proverb, but I don't have the patience now.}
I just took a look at the growing number of comments and "likes" on Facebook. This is going to be H-A-R-D.
Pretty much all the most worth-it things are.
I can't wait.
Not news.
But this one in particular changed my life.
There was a guy there, not one I knew well, or have seen much since, though I run into him every now and again. He's a talented artist--one of those people you take an interest in, because they take such an interest in the world, you can't help but be drawn to that.
Anyway, he said something that day that I will never forget:
"I know God loves me because of the people he put in my life."
He said it, and I sat there, and let it sink in;
and it just kept sinking,
and sinking,
and sinking,
in the way that only such indelible truths can.
This project is a culmination of that, and it's going to be called:
You {Me}-- A Study
I just posted this on my Facebook:
If you read this here instead of there, feel free to comment on this post as well, and I will do the same for you.
While I realize that these posts will be interesting to those who I will write about, don't be fooled by some pretense of benevolence. I am doing this for myself. I want to explore what made me, me--the ways that people have influenced and shaped my life. This is deeply personal to me, and will probably end up saying much about how I view the world and other people, but I'm not planning on being libelous, so don't be afraid to let me in.
Think about it, the moment after we are born, our whole lives begin to take shape in relation to those around us. Thus "No man is an island" continues to be true, and will ever be true as long as God loves us-- which is a very long time indeed.
{Insert some Zen saying about how we come to be, only in our relation to others... anyone know any good ones? I tried to write one and pass it off as a legit proverb, but I don't have the patience now.}
I just took a look at the growing number of comments and "likes" on Facebook. This is going to be H-A-R-D.
Pretty much all the most worth-it things are.
I can't wait.
"We Deserve to Know Light": On Desire
Every time in the last few weeks I have clicked the fateful "New Post" button, the window has sat open and unused on my desktop until the urge to write has leaked away and I close it again. I am not entirely sure what has kept me from writing since this fateful month began. Something about the overwhelming sense of trying to complete one horrific chapter of your life, and the feeling that you cannot write about it until you've finished living it.
It has not exactly been a secret that I recently quit my job. Hmmm... "Quit my job". I feel that is not strong enough. I didn't recently "quit my job", I recently escaped a 2-ton death trap rolling down a steep embankment at breakneck speeds.
Ok, that is overly-dramatic.
And so is THIS, only, it's beautiful:
I know, that song is getting to be more and more frequently quoted here. One would think I was obsessed. One would KNOW I was obsessed. Ok. I am obsessed.
But aren't those words....just...? Well, there are no words. Just feelings. That feeling of an absolute determination to find happiness, that will not rest no matter how hard we try to be content with current circumstances.
I went to church with my parents this last week--having been a vagabond for quite some time, appearances at random church services is becoming a more frequent practice in my life. One gentleman there addressed the congregation and focused his remarks on desire, and what shows true desire in our lives, thereby proving our sincerity. Action proves sincerity. Words mean so little. It is something life reminds us of time and time again, urging: do not listen to what people say as much as you watch what they do.
When someone has a sincere desire to do something, they do it.
As usual, such blanket statements don't work 100% of the time. Just because a blind woman may desire to drive, it does not mean that she ever will.
So how do we know if the things we desire could ever become reality? Well, we take a chance. We throw off whatever it is in life that can be deemed "this terror", asserting that "we deserve to know light", and we acknowledge that anything that is below the standard of what we desire "[could] have seen [us] through" had it not been for that desire. Desire is a God-given gift. It is a tool for change. It saves us from mediocrity and banality. It ultimately saves us from Hell.
I don't know about you, but I need plenty of saving.
There are a few things I learned about being an adult from this experience.
If you hate something about your life:
1. Decide whether or not it can be changed. If it can be changed, change it.
2. If it cannot be changed, learn to live with it. (Keeping in mind that if you obstinately say, 'It can't be changed.' when it really can, you will have a very difficult time learning to live with it.)
Go find some happiness, everyone.
It has not exactly been a secret that I recently quit my job. Hmmm... "Quit my job". I feel that is not strong enough. I didn't recently "quit my job", I recently escaped a 2-ton death trap rolling down a steep embankment at breakneck speeds.
Ok, that is overly-dramatic.
And so is THIS, only, it's beautiful:
"So enough of this terror, we deserve to know light, and grow evermore lighter and lighter. You would have seen me through, but I could not undo that desire." -Joanna Newsom "Sawdust and Diamonds"
I know, that song is getting to be more and more frequently quoted here. One would think I was obsessed. One would KNOW I was obsessed. Ok. I am obsessed.
But aren't those words....just...? Well, there are no words. Just feelings. That feeling of an absolute determination to find happiness, that will not rest no matter how hard we try to be content with current circumstances.
I went to church with my parents this last week--having been a vagabond for quite some time, appearances at random church services is becoming a more frequent practice in my life. One gentleman there addressed the congregation and focused his remarks on desire, and what shows true desire in our lives, thereby proving our sincerity. Action proves sincerity. Words mean so little. It is something life reminds us of time and time again, urging: do not listen to what people say as much as you watch what they do.
When someone has a sincere desire to do something, they do it.
As usual, such blanket statements don't work 100% of the time. Just because a blind woman may desire to drive, it does not mean that she ever will.
So how do we know if the things we desire could ever become reality? Well, we take a chance. We throw off whatever it is in life that can be deemed "this terror", asserting that "we deserve to know light", and we acknowledge that anything that is below the standard of what we desire "[could] have seen [us] through" had it not been for that desire. Desire is a God-given gift. It is a tool for change. It saves us from mediocrity and banality. It ultimately saves us from Hell.
I don't know about you, but I need plenty of saving.
There are a few things I learned about being an adult from this experience.
If you hate something about your life:
1. Decide whether or not it can be changed. If it can be changed, change it.
2. If it cannot be changed, learn to live with it. (Keeping in mind that if you obstinately say, 'It can't be changed.' when it really can, you will have a very difficult time learning to live with it.)
Go find some happiness, everyone.
Welcome Autumn, Welcome Creativity
My instinct tonight is to go on a tirade, that could only end in the saying something akin to "And this is me....being... a TYRANT!"
Yet... I don't know. Complaining gets so old sometimes. In reality, aren't things OK on some level? I think so.
Yesterday I was talking to a friend of mine who is an artist. He finished up a very large graphic design project about a month ago, and he was telling me how he's felt artistically drained ever since the experience, and now needs to rest up before he can create again. That was a very intuitive conversation. I always look at myself as the creative type, and yet, I don't create much. Why is that? What worries me so? What shuts me up? What makes me feel creative? Or uncreative? I will just answer the penultimate question for now, and save the others for another time.
I think I have made it quite clear on more than one occasion that music inspires me a great deal. Perhaps it is time for a different conversation. Other things inspire me as well. Today is September 1st, and the fall is my favorite season. There are moments, at this time of the year, when I feel as though my soul will break through my skin and escape, uninhibited and care-free, into some "Goldengrove unleaving", where it would be free to commune with all of the greats for eternity. Yet, I must beg it not to go, for I need it terribly. I couldn't do without it all together, I am sure.
I think I am inspired by inspiration. Perhaps it makes more sense to say that I think that the creativity of others inspires creativity in me. The way that some women look at designer blogs for inspiration on re-decorating their houses, I listen to music, read poetry/prose, watch films/videos etc. to inspire me to some action--any action, really, outside of the mundane of the everyday. I take it back. I even sometimes find myself inspired to some greatness/creativity in something that belongs almost strictly to the everyday. The creativity of God also inspires my own creativity on so many occasions. What poet can say that they have not felt inspired by some scene of nature? Nature is probably one of the most over-worked cliches there is in the world of poetry and art in general, and yet, it remains. People can forgive the repetitiveness of a theme, if that theme can be termed "God's canvass". I, for one, can certainly forgive it. I think it is wise of us to give nature a chance in our art, no matter how many times it fails from overuse, there are always those moments when an artist captures the essence so perfectly, it is as though we have opened the leaves of some old book in which we once laid a flower to press, and find that it had rooted and blossomed again within the pages, that now it thrives and feeds only on the words written there, to some new life.
When I first started my undergraduate degree (over four years ago now, I can hardly fathom it) I read, loved, wept over, and eventually memorized the following poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins. I wrote two papers on it, the second of which may have been a small instance of self-plaigarism (who knew that existed?) and I do not believe I received a high mark on either of those papers. In retrospect I care so little about anything I had to say there. I'm sure it was utter nonsense, and my professors were probably generous with their grading.
If I were a choral conductor, I would arrange this into a masterwork. Its creativity would fuel mine and I would draw from it with miserly glee.
Spring and Fall to a Young Child
Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
I mourn for her too. I wish she could go on believing life to be as she wishes it were. But, for now, all is well. She is blissfully unaware, and can only catch glimpses of what is to come. Dark, perhaps, but I see the redemption in it. It certainly inspires me. I think I'll quit my job. Or perhaps just write my own poem on fall. I am sure it would be rubbish to the utmost degree, but one would have to forgive me, if we didn't all try it, no one would have succeeded in it. That would have been a shame of the utmost kind.
On the similar vein, (or perhaps it merely seems connected, in my state of utter exhaustion) I am reminded of an evening in late spring when I had plans to attend a concert in Salt Lake City. It was one of those rare occasions where you end up with tickets to a concert you would not have typically known of, but subsequently become very enthusiastic about. Somehow, the evening of this concert, we got a late start and were not able to make it in the doors before they closed them. I was moderately upset about this, as the concert was to be the world premier of the "Double Concerto for Violin and Viola," by Paul van Brugge as performed by the Orchestra at Temple Square. Luckily, they were broadcasting it at the theatre on the grounds, so we were able to experience it on some level from that location. It is curious, in retrospect-- I remember aspects of that evening so well-- yet, If I heard the concerto playing right now, having heard it only once, I would not know it from any other. That night, sitting there yards from the actual concert venue, I could feel the energy of the performance envelope me so entirely that it drove me to tears. I can only imagine what the reaction would have been had I been in the actual concert hall. Eventually, we thought it a good idea to leave the theatre a few minutes before the concerto ended, to ensure we could have the chance to enter the actual tabernacle during intermission.
In doing so, we learned that the building does a fairly good job at keeping the sound inside of itself. Consequently, the end of the performance was experienced visually, more than aurally. I remember so clearly, the way my eyes were fixed, light diffused, through those little panes, as I rested my elbows on that window ledge and drank that performance in until every last drop was gone, the conductor's baton up and down, the movement of the instruments, the performers, somewhat rhythmic, yet independent, building, climbing, hints of the music being produced, some of the louder chords piercing through--
then my eyes perceive silence....
applause breaking that silence....
applause breaking my worship.
Worship. Worship of God, of art, of creativity, of beauty, of truth, of love.
I think that may have been one of the most poignant evenings of my entire life. Creativity inspires creativity? You see, it seems I must produce.
Would you know this scene, had I not described it? Do we always need description in prosaic terms? If you want to convey a scene or a detailed story, add words. It might be said that modern tradition (is that a useful term?) and most definitely Eastern tradition tell us that if we want to convey a feeling, remove words, pack them in, pare them down. I've a long way to go before I have learned to do it artfully. Bear with me, please.
Dusty windowpanes:
Glass drowning sound--deflecting
music to my eyes
I don't feel I've captured it. Give me time, I will keep working on that one. I think it merits work.
I think I merit work.
I think I need some sleep.
Music
I want to write music.
To capture those glimpses of feeling,
Always something not entirely obtainable.
Like a bird you befriend,
Flying in and out at random,
Delighting the senses with its coming--
Feeling the rise and fall in your breast
When it nears and fars--
Ever maintaining its independence.
Not because it does not want to be with you,
But because it was born to fly.
As by its very nature it must leave you,
(and you learn to envy it for that freedom)
So gravity laughs and believes she's triumphed
When the sun slips, and swells, and smolders,
Only to rise again.
She, like thee, belongs to gravity,
But maintains ever constant her dominance--
She lives for her responsibility--
And, in turn, the earth responds to her every movement.
Day in, day out.
Rain, sleet, storm, she burns through them still
Blinding, bonding, searing hot;
And renders you speechless with her awful majesty.
You sit still and ponder them both,
Hugging your knees tight to your chest--
Just breathing, you thank them for their lessons;
Listening, you strain to hear that humming:
That thrumming, thriving, inter-connectedness of all things.
That Music.
To capture those glimpses of feeling,
Always something not entirely obtainable.
Like a bird you befriend,
Flying in and out at random,
Delighting the senses with its coming--
Feeling the rise and fall in your breast
When it nears and fars--
Ever maintaining its independence.
Not because it does not want to be with you,
But because it was born to fly.
As by its very nature it must leave you,
(and you learn to envy it for that freedom)
So gravity laughs and believes she's triumphed
When the sun slips, and swells, and smolders,
Only to rise again.
She, like thee, belongs to gravity,
But maintains ever constant her dominance--
She lives for her responsibility--
And, in turn, the earth responds to her every movement.
Day in, day out.
Rain, sleet, storm, she burns through them still
Blinding, bonding, searing hot;
And renders you speechless with her awful majesty.
You sit still and ponder them both,
Hugging your knees tight to your chest--
Just breathing, you thank them for their lessons;
Listening, you strain to hear that humming:
That thrumming, thriving, inter-connectedness of all things.
That Music.
Is This Real Life?: David After the Dentist, Existentialism, and Living Inside a Vacuum
I did a little break check last night on the freeway. The person driving in front and to the left of me gave me this lovely opportunity by coming over into my lane and then proceeding to quickly come to a stand-still for no apparent reason. I learned a few things in that moment. a) My breaks do, in fact, work. b) There is nothing quite as surreal as that moment of pure silence when you first slam on the breaks and see that you're not stopping fast enough. c) That the surrealism only increases in intensity from there, for the harder you press, the more deafening that silence is--until it gives way to that hideous, ear-splitting screech.
I learned that either that screech will be followed by more silence, meaning you are saved, or it will be followed by the sound of shattering glass and crunching metal, and you'll want them to carry you away on a stretcher because you just bought the car last weekend, and it's your first one, and... the world can't be that cruel.
Anyway. No breaking glass. We were fine. But the experience was sort of indicative of all of life right now. There has been the most terrible karma going around lately. Cars going in ditches; accidentally driving without license plates, insurance, or a driver's license; people going to jail and getting hideous divorces; insurance being randomly revoked; ex-lovers coming out of nowhere; psychotic and abusive X-husbands ruining people's lives; driving to Elmo instead of Manti; being homeless; siblings falling off the wagon... I could go on forever. Please keep in mind, not all of these things have happened to me personally, but one so often feels the weight of the troubles of those one loves, and so the karma that affects one does seem to affect the whole. "One bad apple spoils the bunch."
This morning my roommates and I had to watch something to lift our spirits. There was a terrible mood over the entire apartment. No one slept well. I was too hot, so eventually I had to open a window, and subsequently had my ear-drums blasted out all night by the sound of passing trains. Not that I don't like the sound of passing trains-- on the contrary, I love it. But it seemed the last straw. Perhaps it may only suffice to say that this morning brought with it the despondent feeling that one had "stayed up all night playing hopscotch."
So the three of us sat around in our "Mac Lab" as we affectionately call it, and watched You Tube's infamous "David After the Dentist". As we watched, I thought: that is philosophy. That is an existential crisis. That is beautiful.
And I couldn't help but want to write about it.
Do you know that feeling that life has taken on a new flavor? I actually hate it--that transition between the old, familiar, and the new, undecided. It is as though the last two months of my life have been one giant page turn and I've been lost in that shuffle; trying to paste together the little scraps I have salvaged and saved, in order to make something of sense and order. Really I just want to ask, as David did, "Why is this happening to me? Is this real life?" and, like David, scream wordlessly at the injustice and insanity of it all. It's Waiting for Godot. It's living inside a vacuum. It's waiting for an open window, and it's as stifling as these last few August days have been.
So, we seek redemption. We seek the other perspective on the story. There has to be that fatherly-figure in the background, unseen, reassuring and answering the question, "is this going to be forever?" with a little chuckle and a simple, "No. No, it won't be forever." The father who knows why his child is going through what he is going through, and knows that things will get better soon.
What to do? Be patient, and wait, and try to change the things that I can change, and forget about the things that I cannot. Try to be grateful that we didn't hit the car in front of us, and that AAA has roadside assistance, and that I have the faculties, resources, and health to help me to find better situations for myself.
In the meantime, I un-apologetically declare, along with David's dad, that "This is real life". Every moment one lives is "real life" and I hate any paradigm that seeks to destroy the necessity of every moment--the sanctity of every moment-- in a real life. Every flavor, every experience-- jealousy, anger, elation, boredom, frustration, fear, anguish, angst, foolishness, nostalgia, love, passion, pain and pleasure-- has a place in "real life". But, we may rest-assured that anything that "feels funny" or that makes us feel like we "can't see anything" won't be forever. We have to believe that eventually we will turn a page, walk into a new room, taste a new flavor; we'll "pull the curtains and blinds to let the light in."
"Oh what a beautiful view", my friends. God willing, it will be sooner than later.
I learned that either that screech will be followed by more silence, meaning you are saved, or it will be followed by the sound of shattering glass and crunching metal, and you'll want them to carry you away on a stretcher because you just bought the car last weekend, and it's your first one, and... the world can't be that cruel.
Anyway. No breaking glass. We were fine. But the experience was sort of indicative of all of life right now. There has been the most terrible karma going around lately. Cars going in ditches; accidentally driving without license plates, insurance, or a driver's license; people going to jail and getting hideous divorces; insurance being randomly revoked; ex-lovers coming out of nowhere; psychotic and abusive X-husbands ruining people's lives; driving to Elmo instead of Manti; being homeless; siblings falling off the wagon... I could go on forever. Please keep in mind, not all of these things have happened to me personally, but one so often feels the weight of the troubles of those one loves, and so the karma that affects one does seem to affect the whole. "One bad apple spoils the bunch."
This morning my roommates and I had to watch something to lift our spirits. There was a terrible mood over the entire apartment. No one slept well. I was too hot, so eventually I had to open a window, and subsequently had my ear-drums blasted out all night by the sound of passing trains. Not that I don't like the sound of passing trains-- on the contrary, I love it. But it seemed the last straw. Perhaps it may only suffice to say that this morning brought with it the despondent feeling that one had "stayed up all night playing hopscotch."
So the three of us sat around in our "Mac Lab" as we affectionately call it, and watched You Tube's infamous "David After the Dentist". As we watched, I thought: that is philosophy. That is an existential crisis. That is beautiful.
And I couldn't help but want to write about it.
Do you know that feeling that life has taken on a new flavor? I actually hate it--that transition between the old, familiar, and the new, undecided. It is as though the last two months of my life have been one giant page turn and I've been lost in that shuffle; trying to paste together the little scraps I have salvaged and saved, in order to make something of sense and order. Really I just want to ask, as David did, "Why is this happening to me? Is this real life?" and, like David, scream wordlessly at the injustice and insanity of it all. It's Waiting for Godot. It's living inside a vacuum. It's waiting for an open window, and it's as stifling as these last few August days have been.
So, we seek redemption. We seek the other perspective on the story. There has to be that fatherly-figure in the background, unseen, reassuring and answering the question, "is this going to be forever?" with a little chuckle and a simple, "No. No, it won't be forever." The father who knows why his child is going through what he is going through, and knows that things will get better soon.
What to do? Be patient, and wait, and try to change the things that I can change, and forget about the things that I cannot. Try to be grateful that we didn't hit the car in front of us, and that AAA has roadside assistance, and that I have the faculties, resources, and health to help me to find better situations for myself.
In the meantime, I un-apologetically declare, along with David's dad, that "This is real life". Every moment one lives is "real life" and I hate any paradigm that seeks to destroy the necessity of every moment--the sanctity of every moment-- in a real life. Every flavor, every experience-- jealousy, anger, elation, boredom, frustration, fear, anguish, angst, foolishness, nostalgia, love, passion, pain and pleasure-- has a place in "real life". But, we may rest-assured that anything that "feels funny" or that makes us feel like we "can't see anything" won't be forever. We have to believe that eventually we will turn a page, walk into a new room, taste a new flavor; we'll "pull the curtains and blinds to let the light in."
"Oh what a beautiful view", my friends. God willing, it will be sooner than later.
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