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.
Showing posts with label BYU Campus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label BYU Campus. Show all posts
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.
The President's House
I am fully aware that the title of this post is fairly dramatic.
This is not a political commentary. Indeed, it is not even about "The White House" or its policies as of late. I just wanted to ramble for a moment before calling it a day, going to bed, getting up, and starting all over again (with 55 voice-mails to return first thing).
On Sunday, as church let out, I bid farewell to my cousin who had to stay to an after-the-block meeting. I stepped outside, with the intent of heading immediately home and was promptly inspired to change my course by a surprisingly pleasant breeze. The term "surprisingly pleasant" can rarely be applied to August days in UT, so I had to take advantage. I headed north instead of south and began wandering familiar pathways. I stopped in to visit my favorite campus building, deriving the most impractical pleasure from the satisfying clamor my heels made in the wide, tiled, light-infused hallways, in all their vaulted glory. I watched the small groups of people in the courtyard, about their own business, and felt quite un-purposefully fulfilled.
I eventually (unconsciously) made my way to the "Former President's Home" on campus. I believe that the Holla
nds were the last ones to live there. I have never been inside, though I would probably be welcome to go in now that it has been demoted from a living, breathing home to some Graduate Studies building or other. The back gate was open, so I wandered into the back yard and sat decidedly on a stone bench, facing the back side of the house. As I sat there, pondering its understated beauty and enjoying the shade, I slipped into a sort of reverie that left me with the strange feeling that I was lost in someone else's memories for a time. Memories of some time unknown to me, and people equally, if not more-so, unknown.
Then I noticed the tree. Rather, I noticed its branches, and how close to the roof and a window some of them stretched. I imagined some young soul standing in that window, getting up some scheme to escape some tyrannical great-aunt. After all, doesn't everyone with such a tree and a window have a tyrannical great-aunt? I was so entertained by the thought, I did the only thing I know to do on such occasions... I snapped a picture on my cell phone. Then I used my hand to block out the signs of all other civilization for a while, and I took in this one thing as long as I dared stay in such a state of self-indulgent day-dreaminess. When the moment was passed, I headed home, where I fell onto the couch and into a fitful nap--dreaming of that great house, with all its promises of great-aunts and great childish schemes.
I suppose I may as well admit, as I have gone this far already, that I did not dream of the aunt as much as I dreamt of myself, living there, in some quasi-horrifically, unrealistic future scenario. I dreamt up the very most idiotically impossible life-plot in my head, and shamelessly reveled in it for quite some time, falling in and out of some other dream that I don't remember now. The details were hazy at the time, and in retrospect I remember very little, except that there was a small group of young children, in some never-ending state of childhood happiness, playing with a garden hose, oblivious to the hustle-bustle of the students walking past the stone fence. Some of the particulars were quite specific, but the feeling was simply "home" where everything you could ever need is all together, and can be perfect in an "old Polaroid photograph" sort of way. Luckily for my sanity, the nap was cut short by the entrance of cousin with news of some impending visitor and I was forced to snap out of it.
I cannot say whether or not I had a happy childhood, for I am unsure. I did in that I had plenty of siblings to play with, and though we fought in turn, we loved each-other more often than we were annoyed with one another. I can say that the over-arching feeling I have when I look back on my childhood is one of a longing to get out, and to be free to make my own choices. This feeling has always been with me, as dependent of a soul as I can be at times. I fear my own choices, and yet long for them in the wildest way. As though I were afraid that if I jumped off of the cliff, my wings wouldn't work after all. They are constructed rather shoddily I fear. Can't get too close to the sun or the sea, and I wish to taste both of them.
So for now I stay on the edge of the cliff, and dream of that little house, its perfect escape tree; those three little children, mud on their socks, grass in their hair; the sound on the front step that tells me he's home; and I try to work it all in to some future reality. For now, the reality is the 50 voice mails, and the kitchen table with the varnish wearing off, impending homelessness and the promise of a new day tomorrow, with no mistakes in it. Yet, give me a few hours and I can fix that in short-order.
Might I implore my reader not to do me the dis-honor of thinking that I am one of "those women" who thinks that once you are married and have children, everything is suddenly perfect. I have six married siblings, and over 15 nieces and nephews. I have five younger siblings, and was babysitting since I was old enough to do so. Almost all of my closest friends are married, and many of them have children. I realize it's not perfection. It's just perfection in the making. It's just godhood in the making. It's just the point of our very existence.
What is my job? Just something to get me through the days. Something to ward off impending insanity, pay the bills, "teach me something", prepare me for some career-based future that I hope and pray does not exist, etc.
I went to school to be a better person. Not to get a job. I do not want to "work" in the way that the world has termed "work". I want to work in my divine-given capacity. I want to make the biggest difference I could in the world, by starting where it matters most.
When I have children, I hope they get up schemes, and I hope they get mud in their hair, and I hope I lose my mind with how difficult it is. For then I will have lost it over something worth losing one's mind for.
Law firm: You're not worth it. Sorry.
This is not a political commentary. Indeed, it is not even about "The White House" or its policies as of late. I just wanted to ramble for a moment before calling it a day, going to bed, getting up, and starting all over again (with 55 voice-mails to return first thing).
On Sunday, as church let out, I bid farewell to my cousin who had to stay to an after-the-block meeting. I stepped outside, with the intent of heading immediately home and was promptly inspired to change my course by a surprisingly pleasant breeze. The term "surprisingly pleasant" can rarely be applied to August days in UT, so I had to take advantage. I headed north instead of south and began wandering familiar pathways. I stopped in to visit my favorite campus building, deriving the most impractical pleasure from the satisfying clamor my heels made in the wide, tiled, light-infused hallways, in all their vaulted glory. I watched the small groups of people in the courtyard, about their own business, and felt quite un-purposefully fulfilled.
I eventually (unconsciously) made my way to the "Former President's Home" on campus. I believe that the Holla
nds were the last ones to live there. I have never been inside, though I would probably be welcome to go in now that it has been demoted from a living, breathing home to some Graduate Studies building or other. The back gate was open, so I wandered into the back yard and sat decidedly on a stone bench, facing the back side of the house. As I sat there, pondering its understated beauty and enjoying the shade, I slipped into a sort of reverie that left me with the strange feeling that I was lost in someone else's memories for a time. Memories of some time unknown to me, and people equally, if not more-so, unknown.Then I noticed the tree. Rather, I noticed its branches, and how close to the roof and a window some of them stretched. I imagined some young soul standing in that window, getting up some scheme to escape some tyrannical great-aunt. After all, doesn't everyone with such a tree and a window have a tyrannical great-aunt? I was so entertained by the thought, I did the only thing I know to do on such occasions... I snapped a picture on my cell phone. Then I used my hand to block out the signs of all other civilization for a while, and I took in this one thing as long as I dared stay in such a state of self-indulgent day-dreaminess. When the moment was passed, I headed home, where I fell onto the couch and into a fitful nap--dreaming of that great house, with all its promises of great-aunts and great childish schemes.
I suppose I may as well admit, as I have gone this far already, that I did not dream of the aunt as much as I dreamt of myself, living there, in some quasi-horrifically, unrealistic future scenario. I dreamt up the very most idiotically impossible life-plot in my head, and shamelessly reveled in it for quite some time, falling in and out of some other dream that I don't remember now. The details were hazy at the time, and in retrospect I remember very little, except that there was a small group of young children, in some never-ending state of childhood happiness, playing with a garden hose, oblivious to the hustle-bustle of the students walking past the stone fence. Some of the particulars were quite specific, but the feeling was simply "home" where everything you could ever need is all together, and can be perfect in an "old Polaroid photograph" sort of way. Luckily for my sanity, the nap was cut short by the entrance of cousin with news of some impending visitor and I was forced to snap out of it.
I cannot say whether or not I had a happy childhood, for I am unsure. I did in that I had plenty of siblings to play with, and though we fought in turn, we loved each-other more often than we were annoyed with one another. I can say that the over-arching feeling I have when I look back on my childhood is one of a longing to get out, and to be free to make my own choices. This feeling has always been with me, as dependent of a soul as I can be at times. I fear my own choices, and yet long for them in the wildest way. As though I were afraid that if I jumped off of the cliff, my wings wouldn't work after all. They are constructed rather shoddily I fear. Can't get too close to the sun or the sea, and I wish to taste both of them.
So for now I stay on the edge of the cliff, and dream of that little house, its perfect escape tree; those three little children, mud on their socks, grass in their hair; the sound on the front step that tells me he's home; and I try to work it all in to some future reality. For now, the reality is the 50 voice mails, and the kitchen table with the varnish wearing off, impending homelessness and the promise of a new day tomorrow, with no mistakes in it. Yet, give me a few hours and I can fix that in short-order.
Might I implore my reader not to do me the dis-honor of thinking that I am one of "those women" who thinks that once you are married and have children, everything is suddenly perfect. I have six married siblings, and over 15 nieces and nephews. I have five younger siblings, and was babysitting since I was old enough to do so. Almost all of my closest friends are married, and many of them have children. I realize it's not perfection. It's just perfection in the making. It's just godhood in the making. It's just the point of our very existence.
What is my job? Just something to get me through the days. Something to ward off impending insanity, pay the bills, "teach me something", prepare me for some career-based future that I hope and pray does not exist, etc.
I went to school to be a better person. Not to get a job. I do not want to "work" in the way that the world has termed "work". I want to work in my divine-given capacity. I want to make the biggest difference I could in the world, by starting where it matters most.
When I have children, I hope they get up schemes, and I hope they get mud in their hair, and I hope I lose my mind with how difficult it is. For then I will have lost it over something worth losing one's mind for.
Law firm: You're not worth it. Sorry.
Today. Because it's beautiful.
Fall is finally here and serving yet again as a simple reminder of how beautiful the world is, and how beautiful our place is in it. I like the look of myself in the world, alongside the sight of leaves falling off of my wind and rain plastered windshield as I pull out of the parking lot.
I went gallivanting about BYU campus today and fell in love yet again.
Campus--with all of the students hurrying to their noon classes, faces careworn with the weight of responsibility, professors being stopped by students in the hall, just to see how things have been since their last meeting--and me. I have no reason to be there, except that I want to be. Just because today is beautiful.
All this going on below, while up above the clouds are brewing and the wind is breaking the stillness of the atmosphere, throwing my hair into my eyes, and hurrying me on my way. I see an old friend, and I smile and wave, as I take the first bite of the most perfect apple I've ever tasted.
Just because today is beautiful. Just because today is today, and I am free to do what I will.
"Don't close your eyes. This is your life, and today is all you've got now. And today is all you'll ever have." -Switchfoot
Provo in the fall. Complete with rain, wind, my best friend, and views like this picture. I know that the world is imperfect, but some days it seems closer to perfection than we give it credit for.
I went gallivanting about BYU campus today and fell in love yet again.
Campus--with all of the students hurrying to their noon classes, faces careworn with the weight of responsibility, professors being stopped by students in the hall, just to see how things have been since their last meeting--and me. I have no reason to be there, except that I want to be. Just because today is beautiful.
All this going on below, while up above the clouds are brewing and the wind is breaking the stillness of the atmosphere, throwing my hair into my eyes, and hurrying me on my way. I see an old friend, and I smile and wave, as I take the first bite of the most perfect apple I've ever tasted.
Just because today is beautiful. Just because today is today, and I am free to do what I will.
"Don't close your eyes. This is your life, and today is all you've got now. And today is all you'll ever have." -Switchfoot
Provo in the fall. Complete with rain, wind, my best friend, and views like this picture. I know that the world is imperfect, but some days it seems closer to perfection than we give it credit for.
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