Start.
Stop.
Start again.
Always starting again.
I told JD tonight that this was not the time to be bothering to change our lives. Our lives are going to change themselves two weeks from today. Exactly two weeks.
The mental list:
Clean room
Pack stuff
Paint apartment (more and more)
Find more furniture
Make more money
Eat more healthy (aka eat less carbs)
Write in my journal
Read my scriptures more intently
Pray more intently
Do pretty much everything in my life more intently
Finish the video projects I am WAY overdue on
Renew my driver's license that expired over 2 months ago (don't read if you're a cop)
Be a good employee again who isn't constantly stressing about outside-of-work things
Get the car repaired
This list doesn't even include anything from the wedding to-dos (callcaterer.visitreceptioncenterandsetuparrangement.meetwithdecorator.findstaffandcrewfordecorator.
finishdecorations.gotofamilyshower.gotofriendshower.gothroughthetemple.buygarments.
buyamillionmorethingswithnomoney.finishdressandveil....blahblahblahblahblah...) That is an entirely different story.
But the one thing on my list that has finally boiled to the top? Writing. Writing anything. Why? Because I'll want to read it later. Two years from now, I'll look back and wonder, "why can't I remember anything about the weeks leading up to my wedding?" And then I'll say to myself, "oh yeah. I was a total stress-case and never took the time to just sit. Just breath. Just be."
So here I am. Sitting. Breathing. Being.
Being.
This may not be the time to change my life. I may be in "bare survival mode" for a reason. Perhaps it comes with the territory. Rephrase. Perhaps, for people like me, it comes with the territory.
But I want to write this to my future self, to remember myself by.
Self,
I want you to remember that the weeks leading up to the wedding got really hard. There was a lot to do and no time or money. You felt like you spent all of your time at work, and when you weren't there, you were at home wishing that you had the money and energy to do everything you needed to do to get ready. JD was hard at work with school, the store, and the mortuary. You were crying one the phone to him on a regular basis because of the daily mental break-downs. But remember this:
Remember the time JD held you for hours, massaging your back at intervals because your stomach hurt so bad you couldn't think straight.
Remember the time Mr. and Mrs. Clean *wink* came to your apartment all the way from Spanish Fork to help you paint.
Remember the time the CFO at work reminded you that "family is first" and told you to stop feeling bad that you'd had a lot of wedding stuff to attend to; then gave you a dinosaur chewable-vitamin out of his desk and told you that you should ask for a raise sometime.
Remember the time that "Ambs" and you struck up the inside joke about "Despi" who "drives to Layton from anywhere in the world." and you couldn't stop laughing about it even though no one understood what you were talking about.
Remember the time that JD got sick, and you were able to hold his head in your lap and play with his hair, watching episodes of "The Andy Griffith Show" to help you both get through.
Remember Mom driving perilously in the middle of the night to come help with the invites that were way more complicated than you should have ever let them get. But you still don't regret them, because you love how they turned out.
Remember Cinni's beautiful photography, and how you were in love with her creative "butt-picture" with the picnic basket and almost used it in the announcements, until you remembered that everyone would judge you if you did that, and probably rightly-so.
Remember everyone who came together to throw and attend bridal showers, and how JD's grandmother gave you cut-glass dishes that had belonged to her mother.
Remember everyone. Remember everything. Somehow save all of these little memories away: the melted wedding veil, the overnight shipping charge for the announcement envelopes, the beautiful ring sitting in the box waiting for JD's hand (and the time that you proposed to him with it, in the kitchen, just to be silly, and he jumped up and down and begged for a closer look), the small bunch of dishes by the door that needs to make its way downstairs for a washing, the feeling of pure euphoria when your best friend sent you her flight itinerary that meant that she was going to be able to make it to the wedding from OH, the piles of antiques and vintage items (collected on date-nights and random DI outings with sister) stacked on the table in the corner of the bedroom, the plethora of scaffolding on the Timpanogos temple (and how the two of you decided to pretend that the temple was being built especially for your wedding, and somehow wasn't going to be complete, but you're so in love you're moving forward anyway), the lunches on Fridays stolen away at Taste of India with Will and anyone else who wants to come and the waitresses there who practically are your best friends by now, the feeling of anticipation, the fear of blowing everything but wanting to move forward anyway, the knowledge that you and JD have everything you need to be brilliant, to make life into what you want it to be.
Remember all of these things.
This is real life.
This is water.
This is love.
~Me.
"It Will Be Different Once We Paint"
First comes the uncertainty of knowing whether or not to move forward. Then the euphoria hits, the type that comes revved with a sense of progression once you've decide to take the plunge. Then comes my favorite part: the rock bottom of the decision. You know what I mean, the part where you're staring blankly at an almost-empty 2 bedroom apartment, surrounded by a few boxes and an old wooden rocking chair left by the previous tenants (along with some sticky walls and more than a few dust bunnies), praying the phone doesn't ring, and muttering to yourself, "what were we thinking? Really. What were we thinking?"
It's times like those that bring me back to writing publicly. It's feelings like that which have to find a published voice, even if only to a handful or two of readers.
Neither of us could get the stove to light, so we ordered in sandwiches, Jimmy Johns. You even said "that was fast" when they rang the doorbell, just like in the commercials. But the whole time I felt like we were playing a really bad game of "house". Like, the kind where, were I a child and at liberty to say such things, I would say,
"No, no, no. Forget all of that. I don't like that. Let's pretend that we're already married, and we live in a studio apartment in Seattle, and we both have artsy, work-from-home jobs that let us be together a lot, but we're also both working on graduate work so that we can both be professors. Whose idea was it that we live in a too-big-for-us/million-year-old/half-corroding apartment right next to a mortuary at which we're employed? That was the worst 'house' set-up ever. Oh, and the part where we don't get married for two more months? Yeah, that's GOT to go."
Of course, changing the set-up isn't quite so easy as all that. So, I find solace in someone's else's experiences (fictional though they may be) and repeat to myself some wise words from David Levithan's Lover's Dictionary: "It will be different once we paint. It will be different once we put things on the walls."
Then the phone rings. It's the hospital. Someone's died and you have to go.
Is this really going to be our lives for the next two years?
"It will be different once we paint. It will be different once we put things on the walls."
It's times like those that bring me back to writing publicly. It's feelings like that which have to find a published voice, even if only to a handful or two of readers.
Neither of us could get the stove to light, so we ordered in sandwiches, Jimmy Johns. You even said "that was fast" when they rang the doorbell, just like in the commercials. But the whole time I felt like we were playing a really bad game of "house". Like, the kind where, were I a child and at liberty to say such things, I would say,
"No, no, no. Forget all of that. I don't like that. Let's pretend that we're already married, and we live in a studio apartment in Seattle, and we both have artsy, work-from-home jobs that let us be together a lot, but we're also both working on graduate work so that we can both be professors. Whose idea was it that we live in a too-big-for-us/million-year-old/half-corroding apartment right next to a mortuary at which we're employed? That was the worst 'house' set-up ever. Oh, and the part where we don't get married for two more months? Yeah, that's GOT to go."
Of course, changing the set-up isn't quite so easy as all that. So, I find solace in someone's else's experiences (fictional though they may be) and repeat to myself some wise words from David Levithan's Lover's Dictionary: "It will be different once we paint. It will be different once we put things on the walls."
Then the phone rings. It's the hospital. Someone's died and you have to go.
Is this really going to be our lives for the next two years?
"It will be different once we paint. It will be different once we put things on the walls."
Earthen
Earthen, adj.
To the flight and fancy,
there is nothing more offensive than the earthen. They pale at one glimpse of reality. The flight and the fancy cannot be
grounded—their refusal to exist outside of a corruptible moment makes them incongruent
with daily living.
To
live, to love, one has to embrace the earth: the wooded, the hilled—the mottled
and the pockmarked. One has to glory in
the reality, in the substantiated, the frailty, the strength, the balance. To love in mortality is to know the earth, in
all that it is. Not in spite, but
because.
“Glory be to God for dappled things,” the poet said.
I
will echo.
Beauty and Truth
My dear friend over at Lora Grady Photography recently mentioned that she wanted my help in starting a Facebook group for women photographers/videographers/artists/business owners to support one another, throw around ideas, and share our work.
I want to say right up front that I have hardly done a thing, and that Lora has spear-headed this project from its inception. I did, however, help her to think of a name for the group. It wasn't until we were at the bridal fair a few weeks back, connecting with brides in the area, and speaking with another photographer in the group, that I realized I had never really explained where I got the name "Beauty and Truth". I thought it would make an appropriate post on this blog, as it is something I think about on a regular basis.
In fact, I've mentioned it before.
But I'll mention it again, and be very clear.
This earth is brimming with beauty. Exploding with beauty. Bursting at the seams and tumbling out with beauty. There is so much beauty, at times our souls cannot hold it all, so we pull some of it back out of ourselves, package it up as we like, and call it our art.
In sharing it, we let something so personal (the way we perceive the beauty in the world) react with the perceptions of others, and something miraculous starts to happen... lights go on and the understanding is enlightened, even if it is in ways that no one can explain.
The words "Beauty and Truth" belong to the typical vernacular. People know these words. Philosophers, in particular, those that take an interested in the topic of Art Philosophy, have often discussed at length if art is primarily a vehicle of truth, or a vehicle of beauty.
I'm not sure why they never stopped to consider that the two are the same thing.
John Keats, the English Romantic Poet, was a brilliant artist. That he died at the premature age of 25 is, in my opinion, one of the greatest tragedies in the history of the poetic world. But when he died, he left behind a small collection of works that have haunted me all of my adult life.
One of my favorites, Ode on a Grecian Urn is written from the perspective of one who is examining a decorative urn, likely in a museum, and musing over its beauties. At the end of the poem, Keats issues the following, powerful statement:
I want to say right up front that I have hardly done a thing, and that Lora has spear-headed this project from its inception. I did, however, help her to think of a name for the group. It wasn't until we were at the bridal fair a few weeks back, connecting with brides in the area, and speaking with another photographer in the group, that I realized I had never really explained where I got the name "Beauty and Truth". I thought it would make an appropriate post on this blog, as it is something I think about on a regular basis.
In fact, I've mentioned it before.
But I'll mention it again, and be very clear.
This earth is brimming with beauty. Exploding with beauty. Bursting at the seams and tumbling out with beauty. There is so much beauty, at times our souls cannot hold it all, so we pull some of it back out of ourselves, package it up as we like, and call it our art.
In sharing it, we let something so personal (the way we perceive the beauty in the world) react with the perceptions of others, and something miraculous starts to happen... lights go on and the understanding is enlightened, even if it is in ways that no one can explain.
The words "Beauty and Truth" belong to the typical vernacular. People know these words. Philosophers, in particular, those that take an interested in the topic of Art Philosophy, have often discussed at length if art is primarily a vehicle of truth, or a vehicle of beauty.
I'm not sure why they never stopped to consider that the two are the same thing.
John Keats, the English Romantic Poet, was a brilliant artist. That he died at the premature age of 25 is, in my opinion, one of the greatest tragedies in the history of the poetic world. But when he died, he left behind a small collection of works that have haunted me all of my adult life.
One of my favorites, Ode on a Grecian Urn is written from the perspective of one who is examining a decorative urn, likely in a museum, and musing over its beauties. At the end of the poem, Keats issues the following, powerful statement:
Beauty is truth, truth beauty--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
I admit that in the years I have pondered these lines, they have become quasi-scriptural to me, taking on new meaning and facets each time I go over them in my mind. Every beauty has a Truth behind it, and every Truth is beautiful. I cannot explain how deeply I believe this to be true. Yet, there has to be another side to the coin. I cannot always see something that is beautiful and point to the exact Truth it mirrors, but why not? Why doesn't that bother me, or cause me to change my mind about the synonymous value of the subjects?
Keats himself sets my mind at ease on this point with a phrase that he coined. That is, the phrase, Negative Capability.
As far as scholars know, Keats only used the term once in his writing, in a letter, in which he said, "I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in
uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after
fact and reason . . . with a
great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or
rather obliterates all consideration."
If he were here right now, I'm sure he and I could have quite the conversation, and perhaps I would come out realizing that I had completely mistook his meaning. But putting these two ideas together, I have formulated a belief system about art that is not to be easily shaken. Beauty and Truth are the same thing. They are merely perceived differently. Truth is understood intellectually, and beauty is felt. But everything beautiful is Truthful, and every Truth is beautiful.
All beauty cannot be easily translated into a Truth that can be grasped by a finite mind. Sometimes, we as human beings, just have to admit that we do not understand entirely, and enjoy what we perceive: the beauty. No, not just enjoy it, but revel in it, breath it, love it, cherish it, rejoice in it, become a part of it, and let it become a part of us.
When we do, we will see that we, somehow, in the back of our minds, in ways that we cannot explain (and usually only for moments at a time) understand. Everything. Perfectly.
That is art. That is Beauty. That is Truth. That is Life.
"A poem needs understanding through the senses. The point of diving in a lake is not immediately to swim to the shore, but to be in the lake, to luxuriate in the sensation of water. You do not 'work the lake out', it is an experience beyond thought. Poetry soothes and emboldens the soul to accept mystery." -Ben Whishaw as John Keats in Bright Star
"A poem needs understanding through the senses. The point of diving in a lake is not immediately to swim to the shore, but to be in the lake, to luxuriate in the sensation of water. You do not 'work the lake out', it is an experience beyond thought. Poetry soothes and emboldens the soul to accept mystery." -Ben Whishaw as John Keats in Bright Star
Like This, Right Now
You're sitting on the floor in front of my computer. In the next room we can hear the hum of the washing machine at its task on my piles of dirty laundry. I always let my laundry go too long. You do yours almost every week. I admire that.
I am wearing a pair of light green lounge pants, a promo T-shirt from a previous employer, and your sweater. The grey one. The one that is way too big for me, but I wear it because you left it in my car and it smells like you. You don't mind that I'm wearing it, because you say I'll make it smell like me. I hope I don't. That would spoil it.
I slip away downstairs and secure us two spoons from the drawer because you bought ice cream in celebration of having found some cheap gas at Maverick. I surpress the urge to make a comment about the Maverick gas eating out your engine, and just eat the ice cream. Bunny Tracks. We usually get Moose Tracks. I'm not sure what inspired the change, but no matter.
It is funny, amidst a sea of won't-it-be-great-whens, I occasionally have a moment of "can we just go on forever like this, right now?"
Because, like this, right now, we are perfect.
Like this, right now, everything is perfect.
I'm not interested in that one time when things didn't go right. I'm not interested in the fact that they may not go right again.
Because like this, right now, the only thing that matters is being like this, right now, with you.
I am wearing a pair of light green lounge pants, a promo T-shirt from a previous employer, and your sweater. The grey one. The one that is way too big for me, but I wear it because you left it in my car and it smells like you. You don't mind that I'm wearing it, because you say I'll make it smell like me. I hope I don't. That would spoil it.
I slip away downstairs and secure us two spoons from the drawer because you bought ice cream in celebration of having found some cheap gas at Maverick. I surpress the urge to make a comment about the Maverick gas eating out your engine, and just eat the ice cream. Bunny Tracks. We usually get Moose Tracks. I'm not sure what inspired the change, but no matter.
It is funny, amidst a sea of won't-it-be-great-whens, I occasionally have a moment of "can we just go on forever like this, right now?"
Because, like this, right now, we are perfect.
Like this, right now, everything is perfect.
I'm not interested in that one time when things didn't go right. I'm not interested in the fact that they may not go right again.
Because like this, right now, the only thing that matters is being like this, right now, with you.
Spread Thin
I know that the key to getting something out of life is to set one's sights high...
But I think that I need to focus my gaze.
Honestly, if I could I would be:
A full-time videographer (who would probably also take awesome still-photos, especially with Polaroids.)
A seamstress/costume designer (I've been known to dabble in this with grinch-like effects.)
A musician (Anyone want to start an indie band? I started one, once, but we only got 1/2 a song done.)
A writer of fiction and/or creative non-fiction. . . (Hello. . .blog)
A poet! (There is poetry on here, isn't there?)
A dancer (even though I have NO skill, aptitude, or history in doing this.)
An artist (Hey, I have an Etsy store... this qualifies me, no?)
A boutique owner (Like Cherry Lane!)
An internet marketing specialist
A musical theatre actress
A movie actress (why not?)
An art curator...
I know, I know.
I need to stop. I need to pick something, and do it.
Maybe two?
Three?
No?
Just one?
Oh dear.
But I think that I need to focus my gaze.
Honestly, if I could I would be:
A full-time videographer (who would probably also take awesome still-photos, especially with Polaroids.)
A seamstress/costume designer (I've been known to dabble in this with grinch-like effects.)
A musician (Anyone want to start an indie band? I started one, once, but we only got 1/2 a song done.)
A writer of fiction and/or creative non-fiction. . . (Hello. . .blog)
A poet! (There is poetry on here, isn't there?)
A dancer (even though I have NO skill, aptitude, or history in doing this.)
An artist (Hey, I have an Etsy store... this qualifies me, no?)
A boutique owner (Like Cherry Lane!)
An internet marketing specialist
A musical theatre actress
A movie actress (why not?)
An art curator...
I know, I know.
I need to stop. I need to pick something, and do it.
Maybe two?
Three?
No?
Just one?
Oh dear.
A Short Piece of Fiction-- The Idealist [Part 7--The End]
Ok, here is the end! Finally, I am such a slacker!
Jim continues to open, read, mentally catalogue, and destroy the garbage that encompasses his desk. As he works and drinks, the vehemence of his thoughts gives way to a dull, numb, gnawing desire to be done for the night. Still, he reads on, and as time drains and presses, he finds he has only one letter left for the night. He never reads the return addresses on the envelopes, and this one is no exception. He merely notes that it is addressed to Dr. James Bentley and rips open the top, (it having progressed far too late in the evening, and he having progressed far too deep into his open can to continue bothering with the letter-opener.) and reads:
Dr. Bentley:
You may be surprised upon opening this letter to find that I, an old Chemistry student of yours, should spend time writing you a letter, especially one that has very little to do with the subject of Chemistry, or any other scientific pursuit. I never would have pinned you down as a man of the arts, and so when I heard that you would be carrying out Rob's project in its entirety, I was surprised. Pleasantly, of course, but surprised nonetheless. Please excuse me if I address the remainder of my letter to Rob. I know it seems strange, a boy I passed in the coffee shop a few times, and stranger that he is no longer with us. I'm not sure why, but I think I would feel better if I told him how he changed me. Please excuse this little indulgence.
Rob:
People always talk about how they wish that they could talk to and thank those who have passed on. I decided not to waste any time on wishes, and just talk to you. Your project will be open to the public in a few days, but I have a confession to make: I have seen it! Alone, not with one of the touring groups. I snuck over the gate last night and wandered amidst the rocks, metal, mirrors, and the colors for four or five hours before coming back to and sneaking out unnoticed. I'm not sure how many others have done the same, but I would assume others have wanted to. I'm sure you can understand that we are all dying to "see what we've been missing."
I will admit that, at first, I felt nothing but disappointment. I just stood there in the middle of the field, looking at all of the foreign objects, the numbers, the formulas, all so carefully placed and measured, and I thought, "wonderful! Just like every other piece of art I've ever seen! It is worthless and makes no sense." I will admit that the only thing that kept me there was having known you. I told myself, "You knew the artist. Give him more of a chance than you've given everyone else!" So I sat, and I waited, and waited, and waited. It got cold, and I zipped my jacket tighter and waited some more. I wish that I could say it was right at sunrise, when the first morning rays hit my eyes that some great illumination came to me, or in the witching hour when some fairy ring appeared, and revealed all that I had been lacking. Honestly, I'm not sure what time it was when I realized what you had been getting at. Or, I guess what I see in it. If someone were to ask me right now what it "means" I would tell them: it means that it means. There is meaning everywhere, if we want to look for it. When we look hard, we are rewarded, and we come away better people. If we dismiss, we are the ones who suffer. Your work is a celebration of meaning, and of man's search for it, and his conquering of the unknown. The unknown will always become known with enough determination--perhaps a lot of patience, and a good wind-breaker. Shoot, it's probably a bit of faith as well. To escape finding meaning is to deny our nature.
Thank you for showing me that, I had definitely been missing it.
-Sylvia (from the coffee shop)
The only outward indication that Jim hesitates over finishing this last letter the way that he has finished the others is a slight deviance in his normally impeccable timing. He takes one long sip from his can before folding the letter again and inserting it back in its destroyed envelope. He may also let it fall just a bit more slowly over the scorching heat. The flame that follows, lying on top of the ashtray, has become a perfect lighter for one more piece of paper. Jim snatches The Professor in his Ideal and drops it on top of the burning mess. He knows he should have done it long ago. There is no reason to hold on to yesterday, or to think about tomorrow. All the days are the same, aren’t they? He stares blankly on, not registering the irony that the paper, writhing and twisting over the smoke-stained metal, has become the perfect visual to accompany the sound of an ambulance, several streets away, rushing off to some new emergency.
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