You {Me}-- A Study: Silence

I have not written an installment for this project in much too long, I hope everyone will forgive me. Here goes:

Two words: cafe.rio.
Ok, three more words: barnes.and.noble.

I mentally sort through my top ten favorite college memories, and this is one of them. I wonder if you remember it like I remember it. I wonder if you remember it at all.

To be frank, I'm not entirely sure why it stands out so.

Most of our other friends had gone out together to participate in a large group activity, so we stole away, and went to grab a bite to eat. In fact, maybe we'd been planning to go out that night for some time. Whatever the reason, we were together because we wanted to be. It wasn't one of those, 'no better offer' kind of Friday nights. Well, I guess it was. There was no better offer, because what could be better than what we were doing?

I found myself a copy of Atlas Shrugged, because I felt I had to read it in order to be considered "well-read". You had brought your laptop with you, and sat at one of the cafe tables to do some journal writing.

I joined you. It was perfect.
Literally. Perfect.

You always listened to me and appreciated my ideas in ways almost no one else ever has. I do not say that just to say it. I mean it with all of the sincerity I have. While I still think we need to write a book of all of our philosophies and takes on life, and while I miss our chats immensely, it was this silence that stood out as I thought about our history

Initially, I wasn't sure why.
Then, it came to me.

A comfortable silence is born of a mutual understanding one has with another person. It is as though I knew what you'd say if you were talking, and you knew what I would say if I was talking. So, for those few hours, we didn't need to talk. We have always had a connection, you and I, that is enhanced by the conversations, and bolstered by the silences.

The hallmark of our friendship has always been that you listen to what I say without ever patronizing or acting in a condescending way. You treat my ideas with a degree of importance that eradicates any need for me to be constantly explaining myself. I can stay silent and still be safe. No need to justify, you are on my side, whether I deserve it or not.

Thank you for that, and thank you for the negative space--the silence. It is every bit as important to the overall composition as the flourishes. It is the balance that one does not always find in every friendship, and I feel fortunate to have it in you.

A Short Piece of Fiction-- The Idealist [Parts Three and Four]

I have been a total slacker on this as of late, so here are parts Three and Four. If you're behind, no worries. Here are parts One and Two.

Thanks for reading!

Jim ends this recollection, letting the remembrance of his epithets serve as the triumphant cadence to this little memory. Yet, he still finds himself unable to progress further in his routine. His memory has made him intent on finding something—something that he put away several years ago, and has not seen since. Standing, he draws near a grey metal filing cabinet in the corner of his home office. He forces open the top drawer without deploying the release lever and riffles through the dog-earned folders until his fingers meet the one he has been looking for. In opening it, a thin sheet of sketchbook paper slides noiselessly onto the thread-worn rug below. Jim doesn't bother picking it up, he just looks at it from above. It is another sketch, drawn by the same boy and of the same subject. In the sketch, Jim stands at the front of a crowded classroom, one hand raised to the blackboard, indicating an equation, the other hand outstretched to the students, as if beckoning them to understand the relevance of the formula to the everyday. Jim had merely laughed when Rob handed it to him three weeks after the coffee shop incident; laughed, and then filed it with other documents of mild interest.

The art student had begun to attend the lectures on Thursday afternoons, as well as several others during the week. At first Jim had been annoyed, and had approached him about it. But Rob had merely said,

"Sylvia, the girl in the coffee shop, she really helped me see that day what I had been missing out on. There is this whole other realm of knowledge, another level to the complexities and the interconnectedness of everything, just passing me by. I don’t understand everything you're saying now, but I think it’s interesting, and important, and I want to learn it."

It wasn’t like Jim to consent to something of that nature, not only that it was against University policy to allow any student to regularly attend a lecture that he or she was not properly registered for, but it seemed an annoyance to have a smart-aleck art kid hovering over all of his lectures, sketching at random, and pretending to be interested in the material. Perhaps Rob had decided that Sylvia was a girl he wouldn't mind buying a latte for more often, and was hoping to impress. Why else would a busy art student be interested in learning Chemistry? Jim didn’t have the answers. He did not even know why he had nodded in consent to Rob's eager question, or why he had smiled to himself once he had turned away.

Though at the time he had not known his motivations, now, standing in his office, looking down at the sketch, he instinctively knows why he had not been bothered by Rob's presence in the class. One did not need to observe the boy for long, sitting in the back of the room, with a wide smile, and a ready pen, to realize that this art student was more interested in assigning Oxidation Numbers than many of the pre-med students were.

What professor wouldn't be enthusiastic about an avid learner? Besides, the good Dr. had had many years of experience in showing idealists how the world truly worked. He lived for those moments when students came into him at the end of a semester and said, "I used to be religious until I took this class, and then I learned how things REALLY work. Thanks, Dr!"

Now, back to that drawing. Jim picks up the sketch and turns it over. For: Dr. James Bentley, October 15 19-- The Professor at his ideal. From: A (not so) Damned Idealist. Jim does not bother to suppress a smile when he reads it. It is the first smile he has allowed himself over the incident in all the eight months. Yet, the reader need not hope that Jim's smile is a sign of his acceptance of the tragedy. As far as he is concerned, there is nothing to accept. The news of the plane crash had come just as the news of rising gasoline prices, or the start of another construction project outside of the apartment window. It wasn't good news, but it was nothing that could be helped, and one had to deal with it as one dealt with other annoyances.

No, the smile is not acceptance; it is more of an outward indication that Jim has realized just how right he had been in his diagnosis of Rob. He had been damned, from the very beginning, because he was always out looking for some meaning, some ideal that could not be found, because it was not there. He'd died for it, and no one had been the wiser. Men may die in battle, Jim reasons, but if the war is lost, the people simply adapt to a new way of life, and the dead soldiers are forgotten. As soon as he thinks it, he feels proud of some alleged literary ability.

A lost battle—interesting metaphor. Art like this is good.

Jim shoves the sketch back in the envelope and tosses it onto the desk. He then picks up the letter once again, and finishes scanning it without comprehension of its meaning. Upon completion, he folds it, places it back and in the envelope, and holds it steadily over the raw, open flame of a candle set in the center of the cluttered desk. The edge of the paper resists momentarily, as if asserting its right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. And then, it gives way—wretches, folds, blackens, smokes, and crumbles. He tosses it onto the ashtray and watches the flame shrivel and die on the scorched metal surface.

One down, hundreds to go.

Jim opens the next letter.

Dear Robert: It feels strange to pen those words, I never met you, but I feel like I had. The day I saw the interview on the television of the hikers who found your plane out in the desert, I cried for an hour. I don't understand why I felt so sad that you were gone, but I feel the world was a better place because of your project, and I think it's delightful that you asked Dr. Bentley to continue it for you.

Jim is smart. He knows that what is truly "delightful" is that so many of Rob's admirer's believe that he, James Bentley, had actually been asked to continue the project. Even Rob's own ailing mother seemed to think it the most natural thing in the world. It wasn't any great task to convince everyone that this was the way it was supposed to be. Conveniently, Rob had mailed several notebooks back to the University, in the care of James Bentley, just two days before his accident. It was almost too easy to pretend that the notebooks had been filled with notes, and sketches meant only for the eyes of the man who could finish the project, in the sad event that it became necessary for a successor. In reality, the notebooks were little more than nomadic sketches of people Rob had met along his travels, flying about the United States, scouting out sites for his accursed project. The boy had thought the notebooks cumbersome in his backpack, and had shipped them to the University in order to lighten his load.

A professor with such a long-standing tenure had experienced little opposition to his sudden artistic tyranny, and had not had a moment’s trouble in getting the press to zero in on his story: a heartbroken mentor struggling to finish the project started by his protégée in the very flower of his youth, and so on and so forth. Any sob story to make the people's hearts go pitter-patter and the donations for the project began pouring in by the hundreds of thousands. Furthermore, it wasn't hard to hire men to go into the prairies of the mid-west for days at a time, laden with measuring tapes and clipboards making rounds, taking notes, talking in hushed tones while thousands gathered to watch the historic process. People would stand back and cry, and talk about how “beautiful” it all was. In his days serving the marines, Jim had learned that if you punch someone in the nose, it makes their eyes water. These people thought that tears meant something deep, that they were an outer-manifestation of some inner secret that they all shared, that this 'project' would help everyone to see what they had never before seen. Jim knew that they were just reacting to the punch.

To be continued... :)

Scrape

I hate that scene in Anne of Avonlea, when she goes out to the milking pen, sees her cow still in it, and realizes that she has sold Rachael's cow to Mr. Blithe by mistake.
I hate it, because I know the feeling.

There is nothing I loathe more than being in a scrape.
Loathe it.
Absolutely L-O-A-T-H-E

I detest being embarrassed, and trying to save face, and trying not to cry in public...
I am not the "brush it off" type of girl. It will not be brushed. Believe me, I have tried. It will not be brushed.

Every time I feel that, "I want to crawl under a rock and die" feeling... I keep feeling that feeling. (I started typing that sentence with the hope of it ending profoundly... no such. Alas!)

I had that feeling today, and I suspect I'm not the only one who has ever felt this way.

As I pondered about it tonight, I thought...

THESE ARE THE MOMENTS IN LIFE THAT I CANNOT STAND.

A friend, upon trying to help me feel better, said,

"I have a saying, Katie. A saying for when I think life is super difficult or things look grim. I think to myself, 'At least I'm not being chased by mastodons'. And, next time you're in this situation, think of your ancestors who were being trampled by mastodons everyday... [problems like this are] not so life ruining then."

He had a point. I won't argue with him.
But what is it about being trampled by mastodons that always seems appealing in "Crawl under a rock and die" moments?

There is something about the little things that hurts the worst.

My dear friend Joanna Newsom, in her song "Only Skin" probably puts it best. The song is 16 minutes long, but right in the middle, the music boils down for a moment, and she sings,

"Scrape your knee: it is only skin."

Now, I recently scraped my knees (funny story about that, ask me sometime) and it hurt. Bad. That's the thing about scrapes. They hurt like the devil. Maybe it's just a myth, but I've heard that many times when someone is stabbed (especially when they don't see the knife) they have no idea they have been stabbed. 30% of stab wound victims die. I am guessing 0% of knee-scrape victims die, though I think you'd be hard-pressed to find a knee-scrape victim who wasn't fully aware that their knee was scraped.

It's as though human beings are equipped to deal with the hefty things (shock, for example, probably plays a huge role in the obliviousness of stab-victims) in life. The little things... they hurt. REALLY hurt . But, they won't kill you.

Look at that. We were built for greatness. Who would have thought it?

Everyone has scraped their knee before. There are literally billions of people on earth right now who should be walking around in T-shirts that say, "I Survived ~Knee-Scrape 20__". But they, like all of us, got up, brushed off, and got back to work.

If you're reading this, and you need to hear it, I'm sure it's not helping. That's the thing about "Crawl under a rock and die" moments... if you're anything like me, they can't be brushed off in .2 or less.

But hear this:
IT WILL GET BETTER.
IT WILL.

Scrape your knee: it IS only skin.
And it has a way of healing up nicely, if you give it enough time.

A Short Piece of Fiction-- The Idealist [Part Two]

Part two of the story I started posting here.

"Art is the vehicle of truth that allows us to transcend the mundane of the everyday, and yet realize the beauty of the everyday all in the same moment."

Jim had turned instinctively when, three years before, he’d first heard the young voice unapologetically announcing its bold definition. Even though it is now a worn memory, the opening line of the speech always makes Jim turn, and look. Keep in mind the scene that the professor sets on the stage of his imagination changes slightly each time it is conjured again. Today it is a dimly lit room, flooded with the garishly blue hues of a colorless sunrise. The smell of last night's cigarette smoke lacks the fresh, artistic waft it had inherently possessed the previous evening and is, as morning breaks, reduced to a stale, perverse stench. There are not many persons present, as it is too early an hour for the morning rush.

On turning, Jim finds the source of the declaration in the form of two wide black eyes, staring confidently at a certain listener—a young girl of about eighteen—with unwavering determination. The mass of short black curls that accompanies the eyes could neither be comfortably described as collected, or as unkempt, and so their description is, according Jim's inexpert perception, left at 'skillfully unruly'.

Apparently unaware of the new and intent set of listening ears, the young man speaks again.

"It would not be necessary to have art at all if we knew everything, so I like to think of it as a classroom, or a lens through which the world is revealed to us. Revealed safely. Think of it! A world where you can explore a range of possibilities, and all without really changing a thing.”

Acting on an impulse, one closely related to not wanting to be outdone, the girl responds.

"Well. I am studying with the hope of attending medical school. Take Biology, for instance, there are a million processes that go on in you and me everyday. When I learn about them, I think, it's life changing! The world should be different because of this process! But then I realize that it was going on long before I knew about it. Nothing has changed, but it seems it should have. That's a cliché, I guess. But it does make the everyday much more interesting. Science is like art then. Only more useful. I am going to go to medical school, and save lives."

As he listens, Jim finds his principles aligning with the young woman's, so he wonders why he feels she is getting in over her head; and why, if it is indeed an argument he is observing, he feels that the young man is winning.

The boy, being of an obvious better nature than Jim, simply laughs. No reserve, no guile, no pretense—taking unfiltered joy in the conversation alone. He doesn't seem to care that what he has said would have, under most other circumstances, paled in comparison to her trump card. Sadly for the lover of sport, the lad lacks a certain sense of pride that makes one doggedly determined to be right, and Jim can see his mind mulling over what the girl has said. In that moment, Jim knows why the girl is losing the argument. She isn't listening to her opponent, but her opponent is listening to her.

"You misunderstand me!" The boy says with a grin, as soon as his laughter has finished pouncing through the mostly-empty building. "I do not think that art is the only means of finding meaning in the everyday. Finding meaning, anywhere, is valid. I would never discourage anyone from looking for that, no matter how he chose to carry on that search."

His clarification seems passable to her. Still watching, even in his mind’s eye, even years later, Jim is angry at her inability to give a thorough rebuttal. Instead of giving a thought-out answer, she resorts to the oldest trick in the book.

"So what do you want to do with it? Your art degree, I mean." As she speaks, the girl unconsciously holds a Chemistry textbook close to her, challenging the boy with both her dialogue and her body language.

The visual cue of the textbook signals to Jim that he has seen this girl before. She is in his lecture, weekday afternoons. He knows nothing else of her, except that now she appears to be a driveling idiot, but there is hardly an opportunity to dwell on that in the present moment. There is barely enough time between the girl's question and the boy's answer for Jim to mutter quietly, “Ah, the art student's favorite question. It will be interesting to see what this kid comes up with.”

The boy's answer is immediate and intentional.

"I plan to help others see what they are missing."

The sincerity of his response leaves an odd flavor in the air, as if what he has said, and what she had expected him to say, have become opposing forces, wrestling above the table between them and effectively bringing an end to their conversation. It would have been too perfect for someone to have actually coughed in that moment, but in Jim’s mind, in this little reminiscence, someone coughs, and the stalemate silence is broken. In reality, the inciting sound was the bell on the hill, tolling the hour.

"I have to go.” she explains, grabbing her bag, standing, and turning toward the door. "But it was nice meeting you, Rob. Thank you for the coffee, and… good luck, with… everything." She blunders off carting a sort of saved-by-the-bell attitude, pausing only momentarily to acknowledge the un-invited spectator.

"Good morning, Dr. Bentley, see you in class later." She mutters, inclining her head, and clutching her book tighter, as if to say, I have been studying for your class, so give me good marks, no matter what my actual performance.

In the matter of fairness, one must acknowledge that it is only in these re-creations that Jim has time to analyze the girl's body language. At the time, he’d thought nothing of her book, or the way she held it. Only in these moments of reflection does he realize that because she had lost the argument for science, she had left him with a bitter gnawing sensation that could only be interpreted to one end: he was ashamed to call himself her professor.

It must have been her acknowledgement of him that made the younger man turn to appraise Jim as well. Whatever the catalyst for the analysis, we must watch on to see how it plays out.

Rob nods in an unfamiliar salute and then smiles openly. The smile is all frankness, doling out understanding, not asking for it in return. Jim finds it smug beyond all reason.

"You must be a man of science yourself." the boy speaks, uninvited, but not necessarily unexpected, or (difficult as it is for Jim to acknowledge it) unwanted.

"I am."

"And what did you think of my speech, or didn't you hear it?"

"I heard it."

"And..."

"What?"

"What do you think of me?"

"You want the truth?" Jim spits, and then without waiting for an answer, delivers one of his self-termed 'blows'. "Good, because I always give it. I think you're just another damned idealist."

So clever is he, he hardly has to think before speaking. His opinions are quick to form and slow to waiver. Jim has turned around without waiting for, or wanting a response from the overly eager student. Silence returns to the little room, as it is still too early for much of a rush. The professor promptly finishes his coffee, reads three chapters of his book and gathers his things to leave before his spiteful adrenaline allows him to look again at the table where the younger man sits. Jim has begun to suspect that the lad has escaped out the back way to avoid walking past his table, but finds himself mistaken; for there Rob is, still sitting in his chair, scrawling in a black pocket notebook, pausing every few moments to glance in the direction of the older man and then back down again.

"What are you doing, young man?" Jim snarls, already suspecting the answer.

"Sketching you."

Were anyone walking behind Jim, just now, as he storms out of the cafe, they may be startled to hear him repeating the words "damned idealist" over and over, as though he can use his heated words to warm the raw air that claims him as he steps into an outside world—a world slavishly at its task, dressing itself in a cold, damp, dirty layer of autumn fog.

Again, to be continued... thanks for reading.

A Short Piece of Fiction-- The Idealist [Part One]

I have been meaning to post this story in sections for months now. I actually started writing it over a year ago, and I feel that the time has come. Not because it's ready, but because I want to post it. I guess nothing else really matters.
I guess the hesitance before now was born of the realization that I haven't written a completely fictional piece of prose since I was about 13, and that was... yeah.... not good.
Anyway, I have a lot of reservations and hesitations, but I feel the wait is over.

Only 2 disclaimers (skimmed down from the 83 or so I had planned originally):
1. It is a bit of a darker piece. Not that there are rotting bodies, or psychopathic killers... nothing like that, but it's not exactly light-hearted. So, I warned you.
2. I decided, sort of last minute (aka 3 months ago) that I was going to change it from past tense into a present tense, third person, omniscient narrator. That was quite the task, and now I'm doing some research on google where many sources say not to do that.... oops? Too late?
Oh well, here goes nothing, more parts to follow:

The Idealist
by Katie C. Nielson

Jim grasps a can of something from the fridge, fumbles it open, and sits down to his Sunday evening ritual. The stack is bigger tonight than usual, he thinks. Mind you, whether or not there are more letters than usual is entirely beside the point. Jim always sees them grow exponentially, week after week. Some would call it absurd, he thinks of it more as a—well—a labor of love.

James Bentley can best be described as 'basically professorial' in his own right, which is all right and proper. Neither of a portly, nor a gangly nature, he has a medium build, and hair that has long since past the point of only slightly gray. Unlike most Americans, who weep into their pillows at night when they think of looking older, Jim has the blessing of seeing it for the chemical process that it is; a process that is not to be combated. Besides, it makes no difference what he is beginning to look like; he still doles out nearly impossible exams, hoards good marks like a miser, and rarely gives praise. One can do this, he occasionally reasons to himself, wrinkles or no wrinkles.

Enough of Jim! he will not like this talk of his visual deficiencies . He will not mind us, however, getting back to the letters. It must be observed that Jim always takes special delight in reading the letters specifically addressed to Rob Smith. The ones meant for Rob catch his attention because they are written either by those who have somehow not heard the news, or by those who refuse to acknowledge the news as irrevocably true. Perhaps the two camps are born of the same kind of misinformation. To Jim, at any rate, they represent an unhealthy dose of the insane—an insanity which is, naturally, always to be diverting.

The professor shudders in a near-mirthful manner as he sets about his task. Mind, this mirth is not sprung as much from a delight in the general stupidity of the human race (the only animal in the world that craves to ascribe meaning to the most meaningless of rituals), as it is from knowing that such an ascribing is the sort of thing that Rob would have delighted in, had he any opportunity to read the letters; which, of course, he hadn't.

Dear Mr. Smith, the first one begins, It may seem strange that I am writing you this letter, though I know you will never read it.

Wagging his head, Jim makes some comment to himself about the banality of the writer’s supposedly novel idea. Keep in mind that our study has long-since smothered into submission that little twinge of uneasiness one usually experiences in speaking to oneself, and that we will find him commenting regularly on what he reads within the reams of paper that threatened to obscure his desk entirely. For now, he adjusts his glasses and continues reading:

But I feel I must congratulate you on all of the hurdles you have crossed in order to perpetuate your ideals through your art.

Jim slights as though bit by some small pest or another. Why? I will tell you. It is because the author of this letter has employed an interesting vocabulary: "art" and "ideals". Jim is not capable of hearing those words neutrally, as much as he may wish to. To him, the genesis of these terms can be traced back to an abnormally brisk September morning, a morning to which his mind leaps at intervals, irretrievably. He has long-since learned that these memories have to be allowed to replay, whether he likes it or not. For if aborted, they leave a dissonance behind that hangs heavy in his sparse apartment, like a deadweight threatening a mutiny, not to be dispelled until he has retraced and played them through. You will have to excuse him then, as he attends this business. For, you see, it cannot be helped.

There he goes now! In his mind he is gone back to that September morning, where in the university's oldest coffee shop, he had first met the boy whose mail he has now become so accustomed to reading.

.......

To be continued.

Thanks! Comments welcome, if you'd like!

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.

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"