What's Mine is Yours

What’s Mine is Yours

Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies. –Aristotle

            I want to press my cheek to yours

when you talk, or chew, or smile,
and hear the echoed waves of thought
that sound between your ear and mine.
I want to seal your lips with mine
and taste the words unspoken;
whisper sweetly through your teeth,
inhale your lungs with mine.
I want to hold your hand in mine
till creases fuse and knuckles knot;
trade you hearts, dress in your skin,
and trace your bones with mine.

            I want to sync my gaze with yours
and never blink again
to witness as you live
the matrix
of your life becoming mine.

here was the first version:
I want to care for you when you don't care,
hold you when you're losing grip,
listen when you have nothing to say,
whisper sweetly into your mouth
to give you everything you'll need
to whisper later in my ear.
to press my cheek to yours
when you talk, or chew, or smile;
seal your lips with mine,
hold your hand in mine,
take your hug and give you mine,
sync your gaze to mine,
to breathe your lungs,
trade you hearts
to trace your bones with mine,
to witness as you live
the matrix
of your life becoming mine.

Love Connection

I love men. I absolutely love men. The idea of men, manly things, muscles, voices, mannerisms, and so on. I love my grandpa and my dad, I love my guy friends, I even appreciate ex-boyfriends. Girls are nice and all…but men are that golden mystery I will never stop trying to mine, eventually to make one mine.

Men and women alike, we try for connections. Whether artist, author, engineer, accountant, actor, or chef, curiosity and need propel us to try connecting one thing to another for stability, understanding, creation, or profit. Some connections save time, some push the limits of truth; most uncover some power of love.

Every connection causes a reaction. For every reaction there is a preceding action, how for every lesson there is first a mystery. Sometimes the mystery is lessened as we learn from our hardest choices, our deepest pits, our ineffable feelings, our thickest fears. Or sometimes it’s from the tiniest glance or the lightest touch or the faintest sound that we feel or learn the most.

It’s personal. Until it’s personal, it’s someone else’s. We want personal. We want to learn, to know for ourselves. We long to experience, we desire, we crave, we plunge into experience.

Sometimes we desire that personal part of ourselves to include another; like the gears of a clock, any move we make, they move too. And, on for a while, one experience moves two people, two people move one life. The tick and tock of two hearts, defying time and reason: love is an ultimate experience.

Love is a timeless experience.

That is why you can’t wait for it to come.

That is why, when you’re living in it, you can experience, grow old, and die and it still holds you as though you were just born.

That is why sometimes, when it’s gone, it feels like you’ve never moved, even if you’ve crossed the world a thousand times, even if you’ve left it entirely and come back.

The time it takes to learn what love is is the time experience travels from the head to connect with the heart. No one can tell you what you’re feeling, translate your love for you; you will learn that as the right and wrong connections are made. Like me, you’ll make plenty of mistakes and maybe regret a few choices. But that’s how I needed to learn, and I am glad it took some time to learn the right ways for me to learn love. And I suspect I’ll have yet more to learn, all the time.

Like time, love moves constantly forward—only not carelessly with or without you the way time does. Though there is no rewinding love, and no returning to past love, the same way we can’t go back in time, at least love will faithfully accompany us individually, at our own pace. Love is always present, to one degree or another, and in the present it moves us: forward, inward, to unknown depths. The more we allow ourselves into love, the more we can build on love, making relationships, finding understanding, forgiving, loving anew.

I say anew, because, well…for example, some years ago I loved a boy and I thought I did so wholly. But that ended, or at least passed, and what I realize is, now that that love no longer connects two people in the present, if I were to love him again, the two of us would have to build a new, selfless love, one balanced between two in the present. That’s what I mean when I say there is no returning to past love. (Not that if you feel without love that it's beyond relocating, no, not ever.) I won’t find love by looking back in time; I have to burrow inward and keep moving forward. Love fits in hearts, not in time.

I also mean to say that love evolves at every new moment. Love builds, love wanes, love is very active. Life is not bound by time the way it is by love. As time thoughtlessly cycles life through deterioration and growth, love is the force that enables an endless expansion of goodness in every direction. It is as gravity: a law immovable, but with flexible capacities. Airplanes thrust into the air, obeying and utilizing gravity’s properties, and gravity is not changed. If gravity didn’t consistently press us down, to rise would raise no challenge. Thus we are always designing ways into love, out of love, around love…and we can because love will always be.

That is how it is timeless, that is how it waits. It waits for us to rise from experience and to learn what its connections feel like within us. Then it can propel us in any direction, out of any depth, through any fear, and into another’s arms.

I believe in the love of Olympic potentiality: golden years, with silver hair and bronzed skin, together to the end. I believe such love takes work, and that that glorious labor refines the worker. The final product of a life well connected by love is that heart of gold we all seek. In ourselves and in any other.

Life is about timing. Love is the expansion of a lifetime. 

I Got Pulled Over

Even though I'd had less than four hours of sleep for the entire year, I felt alive enough as I went out to my car this frosty morning and got behind the wheel. I'd had a lot to drink the night before--an Orange Julius from the mall that my blind date, Sam, bought me; then a Jungle Juice at Sam's brother's girlfriend's home (which consisted of a non-alcoholic sparkling drink and a bunch of fruit you skewer out and chew as you sip), two glasses of water to wash down all the "hoity-toity" cheeses and snacks at said home; and finally the shot of Martinelli's sparkling cider to toast midnight. Seriously, Sam and I were drinked out (like drunk, except not).

*I was only driving 4.5 miles up to my mom's house and though my windshield was a bit frosted over, I could see well enough. It was the spotted kind of frost, spread over an otherwise clear windshield. Ignoring the interrupting ice crystals just so, I could put enough of the familiar picture together to transport myself from point A to point B without incident.

really, it was like this. Not that bad, if you asked the 7:40am me.

Hardly a car was in sight as I made my way North, but one distant pair of headlights came closer, turning the same way I had, pulling up close enough behind me that I could make out that blue and red lightbar of a Utah Highway Patrol car. I was going the speed limit, I didn't have any warrants or outstanding tickets, etc. and therefore felt no stress. I wasn't really doing anything wrong, nor do I tend to, so my conscience was void of panic-inducing guilt. I was safe.

Officer UHP got tired of trailing an innocent rear, so he pulled up beside me to see if he might find anything for which he could pull me over. It looked like he might go past me, but then he dropped back and pulled behind me. I knew why. Signaling politely with red and blue waves, the power of the UHP triggered my right blinker. I gave my windshield wipers a kick as I turned onto a side road. That frost wasn't in any hurry to be cleared.

As he approached I started going for my license and registration. I opened my door when he arrived.

"Can you roll down your window first, please?" he reasonably asked.

"It doesn't work," I worked in an apologetic laugh. He nodded with authoritative disappointment.

"Looks like you didn't take the time to clear your windshield this morning," he said.

"I figured I could see well enough," I pathetically protested.

"It looks more than 50% frosted over, you have to scrape it. And is that a crack there? Why haven't you fixed that?"

I shook my head, "No, it's also ice." I saw what he saw, though. A line of uniform crystals formed what looked like a precise crack.

"Oh, it's only ice, okay," he said. "Where are you headed?"

"Home," I say, without really thinking. I was collecting the necessary documents for the officer.

"Did you have anything to drink last night?"

A short laugh puffed from my nose as I said no while at the exact time a picture of Jesus peered from the collection of automotive documents in my hands. The irony in all the elements only hits me now: a good little Christian girl, pulled over on a Sunday for not scraping her windshield, who in fact did drink too much for her own liking the night before (though not in an alcoholic way), and an unblinking Jesus, half-smiling up at her from a sun-faded print of his kind face. He always has a way of involving himself in life's hard moments. And sometimes it's funny.

I have a friend who is an officer, who one time said for church members to never include their temple recommend with those requested documents because it only pisses the officer off. I would never think to actually do that--just because I feel I'm worthy enough to go to a temple doesn't mean I wasn't breaking a rule of the road--but because my officer friend even mentioned that people do do that, and because I like laughing, for half a moment I had the urge to include a brief flash of the Jesus picture in my hands as I organized documents for him. But instead I kept the joke to myself and just laughed when he asked me if I had been drinking. Jesus knew the answer was no. And He also knew I hadn't cleared my windshield for which I was rightfully pulled over. He wasn't about to bail me. I wasn't about to try...

Then I realized my response "home" probably didn't mean to him what it meant coming from my mind, because I had just come from my home and was headed to mom's, which is home in the permanent address sort of way, and was just a really easy one-word response to explain where I was heading. I clarified this so he wasn't under the impression I had been out all night and just now heading home, hung over and clueless . . . no, I was just freaking tired and clueless.

As I handed him my license and registration, I asked, "Is this all you need?" because I couldn't find an insurance card. He told me to keep looking for it as he went back to his patrol car. I sorted through everything but didn't find it. I am insured, but I had no proof of it in my car. This is where tears threatened, because I really didn't want to get in trouble for not having insurance. I hate it when I'm totally legal on something--I have the insurance--but totally unable to verify it because I'm unprepared, without proper proof. It kind of makes me mad at myself, which madness ofttimes pricks the tears.

He came back with my license and handed it to me with a printed warning.

"I'll let you go with a warning this time, but you need to take the time to clear your windshield."

"Okay," I nodded. The tears wouldn't allow my voice to give more. Let me now voice my gratitude through written word, though: UHP officer wherever you are, thank you for letting me go with a warning.

Before I put my license back in my wallet I quickly swiped it across the driver's side of my windshield, clearing the view. The view was remarkably better.

What a way to start the new year out right, right? The words he used, "you need to take the time to clear your windshield," stuck out to me at the time, but do even more so now. Consider the warning heeded! I will take the time, every day this year, to clean my window to the world before I go anywhere.

I don't care how fancy an alternative could be, I want a windshield. And in gratitude I'll take the time to clear it since it affords me necessary protection as I roll along the roads of life.


*Today I shared a summed version of this story as I was teaching a room full of beautiful Relief Society ladies. Our discussion was based on the conference talk Doing the Right Thing at the Right Time Without Delay by José L. Alonso, member of the quorum of the seventy in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It's a simple, but touching discussion of following the example of our Savior, going, without delay, after those who may be lost in life and not even know it or know how to find help, to comfort and bless in any way we can.

I tied this morning's experience into my lesson, for how we need proper vision to proceed along a path that follows the Savior. I thought my vision was good enough. I didn't want to take the very brief moment to clear my protective windshield to go a short 4.5 miles. I didn't think it would be an issue. Short, quick trip; everyone else was asleep in bed where I wanted to be, not on the road with me, and officer UHP, who reminded me that the point is: obeying the law keeps me safe, even if no one else has anything to do with my obedience.

When we think we've got a plan--be it short or long term--and we think our vision is "good enough," I'm grateful for a God who pulls us over sometimes to remind us to get the bigger picture, to put ourselves in the best position before we head toward our destination. And usually I'm a stickler for clearing my windshield. It only takes a moment. I had felt justified that it wasn't that bad. God had lesson-enhancing plans. For all I'm learning, and for a good story, I'm glad I got pulled over. (Double glad I didn't get a ticket.)

How great is God to give us warnings? Nothing probably would have happened, I would have made it to my mom's without harm to anything around me. But I can't know that for sure. Any small reminder of his care and attention for me is a pleasant one, worth the possible delay, and so worth the new view it gives me, even if it requires me to change.

A windshield is there to protect me, not get me into more trouble. I don't often look at the windshield, I don't see it as I drive unless it's dirty or in need of repair. It's there, but I'm meant to see through it. Too often we take for granted things we see right through that provide daily protection. God, his commandments, his Spirit: these protect and shield me in this high-speed, dangerous world of spiritual confusion. I cannot let the cold and bitter influence of the world frost over my view of the way before me. I cannot afford to be blind in the slightest when I maneuver in this world. Accidents are too costly, they always cause delay, and sometimes pain, injury and death.

Sometimes we have a good enough view of where we think we want to go in life. But if we want to proceed with the confidence of full clarity, we need to take a moment, at the right time, and do the right thing: to pray to God, consult with Him, make ourselves clean, and He will map us the best route (which may still contain strategic delays, who knows) to get us to perhaps an even better destination than the one we set out for.

Involve God when you're steering between point A and B, and you will have His Spirit's clear vision to guide you, a clear sense of His love to comfort and encourage you, His protection and blessings--really a lot of good things. It's more than worth the mere seconds to clear your frosted vision to save you the unknowable delay of being held captive in front of those flashing reds and blues.

how silently, how silently the wondrous gift was given

we didn't get any snow here in Utah for Christmas. that's fine by me. i don't care a whole lot for the way snow interferes on the roads. but i love the look of it.

my favorite is when an insulating cloud drags itself overhead, slowly grating along the frozen sky, shaking down frosted crystal shavings. it's the snow you can feel before you see it, because every sound has been muted, been absorbed into the floating flakes. when the snow finally touches, a faint echo of its vertical journey softly clicks on every surface: the trees' twiggy tongues, yellow grass eyelashes, rooftop nose ridges...

how silently, so silently love descends from pure heaven. today, no snow in the sky or on the ground, but piles and flurries of love in my heart this Christmas season. i'm not sure what did it. well, yes i am; Jesus did it, as he does with everything that involves love. i am just so filled with gratitude that my family is alive and well, that my friends are so many and so wonderful. i am surrounded by immovable snowpacks of miracles, unmeltable blessings.

as he came to earth, so he comes to hearts that invite him still to enter in. silently. you feel it before you see it. the noisy cares of the world and life are muted and absorbed in his endless love, which love will drift high in your heart; and instead of cover the roads, show the way; instead of chill the surface, ignite the core.

the greatest gift i could ever receive is a daily snow dusting of what the angels declared to simple shepherds tending their flocks that night: good tidings and great joy. I have a massive love for the gospel good tidings of Jesus Christ and am blessed with a testimony, gathered silently, experience by experience, that God did send that perfect child, who grew and lived as my model example; who atoned to take my scarlet sins and, through faith and repentance, renew my soul as though it were white as snow; and who died to bridge the way over death to life eternal.

by way of honest faith, i have had undeniable miracles in my life, simple and great, and i have come to know my Savior. he has granted my every, daily blessing.

and I am completely snowed in.

Nuclear Bombs and an English Major

Ahh, finally I can breathe without breaths taking up energy needed for deadlines. Free breathing, it's nice.

Whenever I exit school I see this plume of white smoke some distance to the north. Often it makes me ponder what it must have been like waking up all dandy, breathing free on a pleasant morning in August, year 1945. Then suddenly a lightning geyser punching through the ground, rocking even the dust of the earth beneath my sandaled feet. Standing some distance to the south I wouldn't die, but every eyelid blink would try for days to scrape the inverse x-ray pillar scarred to my retinas.

From where I see the smoky finger poking at the sky, my guess is the town of Pleasant Grove would disappear, become a giant gravel pit, every slab of cement an unmarked headstone. I used to live in PG. I want to say I remember what that plume is from. I can't. And I guess I can't help that I wonder what an atomic bomb shock wave would feel like.

I picture the people in the surgical clinic upon which the "Little Boy" released his nuclear tantrum: one minute bowing to check on a patient; lifting the page of a patient's chart; the patient turning his sick face toward the window, his breathing subtle like the leaves nodding sleepily at the summer morning sun--

then in the profound silence of full volume noise, an instantaneous slurping of every atom of air, simultaneously resisted by a force that turns teeth to ash, snatched their bodies, etched for an instant in the transparent monolith of time, just long enough for the entire earth to pause, a pop of light surrounded each human statue, radiating skeletons framed in black silhouettes--

and after that moment, a melting hole, their stunned souls rising on a smoldering halo of smoke.

This video has bounteous dramatic effect...but it's rather close to what I imagine. No way so many humans (140,000) on earth could have woken that day with a feeling that it might be their last.

"The bomb was delivered by a US B29 bomber, nicknamed Enola Gay, from the Pacific island of Tinian. Dropped by parachute it exploded about 580 m. (1,885 ft.) above the ground, and at the point of detonation the temperature probably reached several million degrees centigrade. Almost immediately a fireball was created from which were emitted radiation and heat rays, and severe shock waves were created by the blast. A one-ton (900 kg.) conventional bomb would have destroyed all wooden structures within a radius of 40 m. (130 ft.). Little Boy destroyed them all within a radius of 2 km. (1.2 mi.) of the hypocentre (the point above which it exploded). The terrain was flat and congested with administrative and commercial buildings, and the radius of destruction for the many reinforced concrete structures was about 500 m. (1,625 ft.), though only the top stories of earthquake-resistant buildings were damage or destroyed. Altogether an area of 13 sq. Ikm. (5 sq. mi.) was reduced to ashes and of the 76,000 buildings in the city 62.9% were destroyed and only 8% escaped damage" 

(from this photojournal website:

 http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/g_l/levine/bombing.htm).

Several MILLION degrees? Holy crap. [moments and moments of silence]

It's so hard to segue from horror to anything else...

But anyway, I picture this walking out from school. Not sure why. I mean, I could think happy thoughts, right? Like "oh, i bet that's a magical candy factory sending sweet fumes of confectionary sugar into the air" (*note, powdered sugar/sugar dust is also highly explosive) but no, I think of my Japanese brothers and sisters on those fateful days in August 1945.

Why do I think I can even pretend to visualize such a horror? Mostly because of media and movies, is my guess. Maybe I was watching from heaven. I would be the kind of spirit to request to watch such a thing. Somehow to develop compassion for others, if that's how pre-mortal heaven works. Or perhaps I was there, if the pre-mortal or pre-this-life precinct is governed by reincarnation. And that's why I am drawn to think of such things, because my soul was once propelled into its next life from that nuclear force. I don't know. I tend to ponder on the more macabre. That also prompts a "why?" which also receives another "I don't know." More often than not life ends in death, so it's an inescapably intriguing part of existence. In my opinion.

But I love the living part. Despite a somber regard for this historic event at this precise moment, I'm actually quite happy. Indeed, profoundly peacefully happy. I have high hopes for next semester, and small, productive goals to keep me busy until it comes, to keep my brain engaged. This semester really put me to work, and I don't want to lose that ethic or momentum. 

one goal is to read the Chicago Manual of Style. It's a rule book about grammar. Thrilling, huh? The way I see it, it's the Louvre of Language. I'm that kind of person. Who really will read the dictionary sometimes. I know. I think I could have been a dictionary in another life. Or some human equivalent. Maybe a medieval scribe. I love writing. Even after hundreds of double-spaced typed papers this semester, I still love writing. I love it even more I think, because this semester made me better at it. I am so grateful for the opportunities proffered me at school. The first person I thank for my success is God (if I fail anything, it's my own fault; if I win, it's all on God. He's too good to me, frankly). The next first.one (1.1) person I thank is Grandma Bonnie. She funds tuition and books. Without her, I wouldn't be going to school right now, frankly. And then Aunt Jadine is 1.2 because she's the woman. She makes school costs reimbursement happen. I am blessed. Beyond.

Did you know next semester they're making me Editor-In-Chief for Touchstones magazine, UVU's literary journal? Oh dude, I'm nervous. But so excited. I really want to do this editing/publishing thing with my life, so more than it looking good on any resume, I really want to learn everything it can teach me! I still can't believe I'll be the kind of top leader person for the semester. This past semester I was a Poetry Editor. That was a fair amount of work. Now I'll have more to do, but I'll have amazing people around me. Spread the word if you know any students enrolled at UVU who write poetry, fiction, non-fiction, or drama, or do photography, sculpture or art, and tell them to SUBMIT their stuff, or if they want to be part of the staff, to send in an APPLICATION because it's going to be so much fuuuuun!!

Things are looking mighty fine in this current life of mine. Just got to keep seeking first the kingdom, then I'll be citizen of a first-rate nation that supplies every needful thing. No matter what happens, I'm good with God.

So...farewell Fall 2011. 

Pencil Picture Poem

twenty-six letters, in no particular order

Just then, I opened a new post and completely expected to see something written already.

That's because all day I've been writing, just not in a readable way. Each experience I lived today somehow knew it was important and so it started doing this strange thing to me. Each experience pricked a tiny hole in wherever it is within me that gets that full feeling of satisfaction with life. And instead of being filled by the wonderful experiences of this day, I was emptied.

I was nestled in a seat at church, warming my heart by the heat of sweet declarations of faith by my peers and friends. Their personal testimonies witnessed of the masterpiece that is painted by every stroke of brilliant experience, designed by God, hung in the halls of our memories--indeed painted on the very walls immovably. My heart was open, yet unfilled.

An hour later I was in the Relief Society meeting, surrounded by angels with no two hairdos alike, no two outfits uniform; my heart opened wider, gladder to the spirit shared, but was not filled.

I stirred the coconut milk in with the squash and curry and chicken and onions, and my nose poured the soup's savory aroma into my lungs, yet my soul was not filled.

And when satisfied mouths partook I was happy; then a little prick, another leak began. I wondered. If the gospel would not fill my soul, if making and sharing food could not satisfy--indeed if these most favorite acts now sabotaged what usually they made whole--what could patch my draining soul?

When the boy (whose attention crushes my heart making my cheeks bruise rosy) talked to me and even complimented me and made me laugh and this did not reverse the emptying process I knew at last nothing would work and it must just be one of those days.

I don't mean to say that these good experiences didn't make me feel good, but I just didn't get why nothing was sticking. Plenty of feeling, just no filling.

The moments of my day had this plan: rid her of satisfaction and she will feel a need to be filled, she will write. Each letter will prick the tip of a finger, the leaking feelings bleeding through a corresponding shape, and when each letter has been typed tidily in place, she will discover that her soul is actually filled and overflowing, that words had just had no ability to define those excess feelings that can only be felt. She will write, and she will be filled. Then her filledness will be fully represented. in writing.

Well.

Writing thinks it does that. It thinks that since it holds all the letters, then it owns all the words. If it owns all the words, it can produce any and all meaning. All satisfaction will be filled if I write the feelings out, write 'em down. It thinks that since I can't think without words, I need writing to be ultimately fulfilled.

Well, more or less, the words are right. I need them to communicate feeling. A feeling comes, I sense a movement within me, I classify it best I can, I tag it to track its migratory patterns. That's what we do, we assume every feeling has a place, so we find or make a place for it.

Right now I'm writing because...

[minutes of wondering wandered through my brain just now]

I have no reason.

Right now I am content, but at a loss. A loss for what? Words? Never. There are always words, even if none of them describe the things I feel and think. A loss that feels like the overused "missing jigsaw piece" analogy. It's not a corner piece; my frame is complete. But there's one inside piece that I'm looking for, because this one section is almost complete, and I feel like I'll know it the second I see it.

All this fancy talk is bothering me. It's because it'll have an audience of who knows who. I could have written in my journal, privately, but when I write that way it's so blasé, it's as if I write the same page over and over again. I chose to write for an audience other than myself so that I would try harder.

It worked...but it's boring. It's all pretty and floofy, which isn't even a word, and my pretty words weren't even true. So here's the truth.

Right now I'm writing for attention. Right now my mind feels like it's trickling down my spine and down, through to the center of the earth because I took sleep-aid pills to induce an imitation slumber sensation.

Right now, if you were looking through your screen to me you would see this:

Which you probably weren't expecting. I mean, how could you have? It's not pretty. But, truth be told, I'm too vain to post a picture I don't think resembles prettiness in some measure. Right now my face is stiff with mud that hides my skin as it pretends to cleanse it. My words mask my feelings as they pretend to portray them. That's happening in my "right now," even though you're reading this during your "right now."

Right now I'm thinking about Mary, the mother of Jesus. She didn't ask for it, she wasn't walkin around thinking "I sure hope I'm the Mary, chosen and bound to get a lot of attention." I never would have been a good choice to fill the role of Mary, or Eve, etc; I'm too vain. Not humble enough. I try to be, honest I do; but, not so that I'll be chosen for it, because that's instantly contrary to the laws of humility. I would really like to be honestly humble, by very nature. But it takes a lot of effort on my part to be humble. So I keep trying.

Right now I'm thinking about that boy. Yes, I have a crush, as they say, on this boy. But he has a crush on himself, so he doesn't need mine. But still it's just fun to have a little crush. The reason (well actually there are many deserving reasons a crush would form) I've been attracted to him is because the first time I ever talked to him, I told him that I love to write and he responded exactly how I expected he wouldn't: he jubilantly expressed slight envy that I pursue writing, that I study it in school, because he too loves to write (and he does it well), but he is studying more practically lucrative things. So ever since I met him that pleasant night beside a dim fire, I knew I liked him. He unknowingly inspires me to create, to write, because I am privileged to pursue what I love. But that is all he will do for me, because I do not seek his attention. When I get it, I am pleased. But he gets enough attention from enough girls to fill an entire stadium, wherein they would gladly assemble to cheer for only him. He would act embarrassed, but that would be his mask to cover his smug elation. I do not imply that he is at all unpleasant, I'm just saying I will not participate in throwing myself at him. If he asked me out, I would absolutely say yes. He's the white knight; he makes the first move.

Right now I have to pee. Right now my nose is itching from the mud mask. Right now all the letters aren't touching each other on the keyboard, but 'w' typed after 'o', and 'o' typed right after 'n', creates the present. Those letters chain up these words, and these words make up my feelings, and my feelings fill my happy soul despite its holes and ignorance. Right now I think I've written all I came to write.

oops, I almost forgot the letter z.

Red, Magenta, and Black shatter Friday

It was a Black and sunny Friday. Al, Moyra and I didn't go shopping. We got manicures and went to lunch at Zupas to spend some time (and a little money) making meaningful memories. Alex chose pink to go beneath a black shatter paint and topped it off with gold flowers and dots, Moyra chose a gold-shimmering red, and I got a magenta that perfectly matches the belt I'll wear this Sunday when I give my talk.

Last year Al and I did hair and makeup and went to a movie, sneaking ice cream in with us. I cherished the day, so we went out again! I'm glad Moyra came this time. It was her birthday four days ago, so in proper heed of the season, we celebrated a birth as we avoided celebrating consumerism.

My opening words in last year's post were "The world is probably my least favorite place the day after Thanksgiving." I think so even more this year. I don't mean to judge the people who participate, necessarily. Well, perhaps without people, Black Friday wouldn't exist as such, and so maybe I am judging the people, en masse.

It's simply a land of make believe, and I can't bring myself to pretend. A sale seems suddenly special. One perceives that money is being saved whereas money is actually flying out of plastic cards under pretense of currency, which only represent credit, debt. Knowing that their spenders are evolving--they can't even wait for Thanksgiving to fulfill its role before Santa stuffs the market--the Stores adapt: they open at midnight, a time that their wallet wielders would stay awake to anyway. The bell tolls, the money passes from one life to another, presents purchased are given to others in similitude of some reason foggy to the eyes which see twinkling red and green, ears that hear jingling bells, those who stuff their four-wheeled sleighs with packages and bags and boxes and pudding and roast beast...wait a minute, this sounds familiar. Ah yes, Dr Seuss wrote a book about a Grinch whose mind was stuck in a perception of Christmas consumerism, and whose aim was to steal things so he could ruin Christmas. Sure, the Grinch was more a vindictive guy who resented being excluded from all the festivities, but Black Friday reminds me of this part:

That look he gives at the end is the face I attribute to my mind when it thinks about the day after Thanksgiving. A day of gratitude for the plenty that the world shares with us, lasts not one second past midnight and then the noise begins. The rush n' crush, pleasure-treasure, deal stealing, reason for the season treason...take that, Dr S. (with this snippet of video i expect no monetary gain nor claim as belonging to anyone but the Doc...)

Don't get me wrong, presents are nice. We want people to remember us, know that we love them. The idea that presents reflect love has long been evolving, along with the shoppers.

Strictly speaking, if anyone should get presents for Christmas, it's Jesus. It's a celebration about Him. The wise men brought gifts for him and his mother. (Here is a link with thoughts on the meaning of the wise men's three gifts) But, since He doesn't have much need for earthly things anymore (what do you get a Guy that really does have it all?) we bring gift-giving down to our own level: presents are for the kids.

Why are there two different words, anyway? Present, gift. French helps me understand this. "Cadeau" (which is a word close to 'cadet' which means youngest sibling, and also to 'cadavre' which we all know means dead body) means present. "Don" means gift or talent. This makes me think that gifts are given as from God to his children (hence the birth of his Son), or as reward to hard work, or as from worshipper to king; whereas presents, we give to each other (which is in essence trading back and forth what God has gifted us).

I heard a radio commercial for a laser eye surgery establishment (weeks before Thanksgiving) that started out "We all know Christmas is about kids." And the commercial continued on about how if you bring a toy to make a kid's dreams come true, you'd get a discount on your eye's own dreams coming true. I've had this eye surgery. It sure is a dream, a miracle even. Hey, speaking of miracles, Jesus healed blind eyes! They should've used that approach in their advertising. "When Jesus was on Earth, He healed the eyes of the seeing impaired" (they'd want to be politically correct) "So since He's not here any more...bring in a toy for a kid and we'll discount the miracle of perfect vision as your present to yourself this holiday season"...

I return from tangent. Presents are for kids. I was just telling Al and Moyra today that it feels weird as an adult to ask for presents. When I was young I had interests, hobbies, really simple kinds that could be wrapped in boxes. Nowadays it's just not right to ask, "um, well I'd like a reliable car" or, "I could really use a box springs and frame under this mattress on the floor." I have a job and responsibility and so asking for presents comes with a taste of shame: I ask for things I need that I can't quite get for myself. Though my loved ones love to help me, I feel like I need to wait until I'm getting married (or have to give up on hope of marriage and find a 'place of my own') before I'll feel comfortable asking for the presents I need/want now.

Plus, I'm happy with what I have already. I have 99% of what I want and more than 100% of what I need. I am blessed, end of complaint.

Why did we learn and why do we teach kids that birthdays, holidays, celebrations are about presents and candy? Why do they get to roam around and collect free candy house to house? Why do they get an Easter basket filled with candy and presents? Actually, participation in these traditions don't bother me. Why so many children do not know what celebrations are truly for, that's what bothers me.

We know Santa isn't a real dude that never grows up at the Never-Never-North Pole, shaking fairy dust on a sleigh and reindeer so he can heigh-ho-ho-ho his happy thoughts into the air and drop presents on the good boys and girls, and coal on the bad. Around the world in one night.

Why do these things lose charm for us as adults? Because we don't believe the lie anymore, even if we try to keep living it. We participate in the consumer tradition without stopping to realize we're not saving the money we're spending. It's hard to feel cheerful living something you don't believe or know how to believe.

A possible majority of adults aren't sure they believe in Jesus, and so the holiday begins to look more and more holey, hollow. Why do I even celebrate this day? To perpetuate the lie, so the children will grin when their dreams are ripped open on Christmas morning--er, I mean, when their presents are ripped open to reveal their hopeful dreams on Christmas morning.

I know of two believing children, two very darling girls. Sure they ask for presents and play along with American traditions, but they have a gift of humility that was given them when their mother was taken from them by cancer about seven years ago. (Talk about a ripping of dreams.) They are so modest in their asking, receiving, and showing gratitude for things. I'm not saying they're perfect kids, but they rank up there on the nice list. Their dad is doing a fine job.

I guess because it was a present, I'm as guilty as the next presenter--but they didn't ask for it. I took these two girls to get their nails painted because I love them. I don't think spending time (and a little money) could ever spoil two such gifted kids.

You know, I'm convinced as children we knew exactly what Christmas was about before presents stole the scene. It's about a Man who lives somewhere Northeast of wherever you are in the world, who smiles down and gifts every good thing to those who humbly ask. We should let the simple, childlike belief in Jesus Christ be the miracle gift to our blind eyes this Christmas season. (I love this video)

i'm an almost really good writer

Post 1, Post 2, Post 3

I had some of my writing peers look over a slightly modified version of my first post this month and their feedback to me was that they didn't quite understand what I was trying to get at. Fair enough. If even one person gives me that sort of feedback, it is a fair assessment that I need to write better.

In my opinion, certain blog writing should be raw; in a way unfinished so that the reader can cook it up just right. I want my blog to be an open reflection of what I'm thinking, not what I think you should think about what I've written. Sure, I want it to make sense, but what if I make you fill in some blanks? You aren't duty-free as a reader. I won't make you reel until your brain is upside-down from hoping to find some semblance of sense in abstract and disconnected rambling, not intentionally. But I don't want to carry you; I want to move you.

You've got a brain, an imagination. It needs exercise. It is always my intention for my sentences to offer breath to your expanding mind as your eyes jog along, each word a stride toward an energized view of language, life, yourself.

In my creative non-fiction class it's been a pretty consistent feedback on my writing that I should look more closely, take advantage of utilizing meditation in my stories, so they have an ability to reach to a reader and make a connection. While I personally felt that I got out what I wanted to say in my first post, I can always order it better, or be more clear, or something. Writing raw, the way I do on my blog, without peer review before publishing, may not produce perfectly sensical material. I'm a consistently almost really good writer. I'll keep practicing.

So, just to be clear:

My point in not wearing a bra for the month of November is to be veritably aware of breasts, particularly my own. I intentionally left out the word cancer. Not wearing a bra will not somehow make me aware of cancer, any more than seeing pink will make me aware of breast cancer. I'm not wearing a bra to remind me to research about cancer, so that I become aware of it.
----so far this has been interesting. liberating in some ways, inconsequential in others. Mostly I've been keeping a jacket on because going braless is always colder and so in winter even more so. I'm unaware of what other people have perceived, if even they've looked at my chest; only my roommates or the guy I'm not exclusively dating have really had anything to say, and usually only if I bring it up. Anyway, because I usually keep the jacket on, I don't think many people are aware, and that's okay because that wasn't the point; I need to be aware. I'm doing this part for me. No bra as an action to improve my own awareness.

My point in choosing November is because breast cancer doesn't end after halloween; it's not "pretend" or "dress up for fun and then go back to normal life." Traditionally, November is gratitude awareness month. I am grateful for thus-far healthy breasts. And bras. I think it will feel peculiar when I again wear a bra, but bras sure are useful for rounding things up, for grading on a curve...

My point when I made the comparison between breast cancer awareness propaganda and TV commercials featuring starving children, was to question why two such serious issues receive such different attention. World hunger, does it have an awareness month? Nationally, yes: June. I didn't know that. June has always been about me, since it boasts no national reason to celebrate except that I was born its eighth day. (Someday when my writing makes me famous, and then I die, June will finally have a holiday.)
----we always use something humorous or infantile or cartoon to represent our holidays. Santa, turkeys, Easter bunny (seriously, what a joke), etc., so that we can make an easy connection, feel like we're celebrating awareness---even if we don't think for one second of Jesus' birth, a peaceful harvest feast between foreign settlers and Native inhabitants, or Jesus' resurrection, etc.

Some look beyond the plush toy turkeys and use November as a time to gather in canned food and donate it to shelters and food banks. A true spirit beams behind the propaganda of every holiday that is reached by awareness. Once you step into the rays of awareness, your attitude changes and you let yourself be moved by that spirit, and that is when a difference can be made, when you can feel that satisfactory joy of the season.

My point is, you don't become truly aware of anything unless you do something proactive. Having a perception of some thing or situation or fact is nice and all, and weakly qualifies as awareness; gaining knowledge of any thing or situation or fact takes initiative on your part. No one else can think for you; not even my words will succeed in making you truly aware unless you personally desire to do something about things, situations or facts in your own way.

I don't care if you don't want to learn about breast cancer. Maybe that doesn't affect you very closely. Well, then what does? My words are etching a template for action.

My point is, pink means nothing to you if you don't know what it's signifying. What it's signifying doesn't mean anything to you unless you learn about it. If you're not concerned with eventual cancer, then maybe it's heart failure, Alzheimer's, any other mutated component of "normal" that may lurk in your own future. Your participation must be your own: you must become aware by knowing the risks, the preventative measures you can take, and when the time comes, when ultimately those precautions may have had no power to change your course, then you need to be aware of how you will care for yourself. What will you decide if your options are limited? Which treatment, any treatment, are there treatments?

If you have a question, seek its answer. Ask, and it shall be given you. Unless science doesn't have an explanation quite yet.

And that's why they're handing out bumper stickers that say "save the TaTas" or "save second base", or "I love boobies", etc.: to supply money for research. I haven't put energy into researching where exactly the funds and donations go, but so many good and concerned people donate money, goods and time to furthering the search for cures, for treatments, for machines that provide early detection. So I support the efforts, I am glad everything turns pink and people buy in to it. The money furthers research and treatment, I hope, more than less.

I went to the Huntsman Cancer Institute at the University of Utah on Friday. The building is absolutely beautiful. There are two sides to it: the patient and hospital side, and the research side. The hospital was so unrestricted, inviting---it didn't even feel like a hospital, actually. Every floor has an amazing view of Salt Lake valley. The sincere care and individual investment of doctors and nurses and volunteers and other workers was palpable, breathable: instead of a hospital smell, a hospitable feeling. That was the most impressive thing I take away from the hospital side. Cancer is taken seriously there, but the hopeful feeling is unmistakable. That's what I personally felt aware of.

The sixth floor is home to their research library. I want to go back and browse and ask questions before the month is through, but I'm not sure that I will get to it. But, so that you are aware, there are specialists there who offer answers, comfort, motivation and solutions if you or someone you know needs any info. It's a way to get tailored research tips from an actual, experienced human versus the impersonal Google database. Not saying Google isn't vast and helpful, but at the Institute these counselors can narrow down and point you in the precise direction you personally need to go.

My tour guide Judy pointed out several donated furnishings as we moved through the building. Every piece of art was donated. One painting right outside the research library was even raised into the building by crane before its outer walls were even constructed because the mural is so big; it wouldn't fit up any staircase or elevator. The top floor was literally built around that painting.

I took only one picture during the tour (okay two, counting the description) of another masterpiece:

My phone camera couldn't capture the whole puzzle, but only just barely. 24,00 pieces, one by one! There was another puzzle like this one on a different floor. It is truly an aesthetically comforting building.

Judy then took me over to the research side of the Institute. Actually that's where things started to appear more like the typical hospital: a running track of florescent lights above, squeaky tile floors below, echoey halls and very little art the closer we came to the labs. 

Now, my friend Ryan (whose humor would produce medicine of the cure-cancer level, were laughter somehow transformed into something absorbable by blood) had prepped me for my tour. He works in a lab there at the Huntsman and he mentioned how every PI (Principal Investigator, essentially a specialized research doctor) has a lab and research workers or interns such as himself, and the room of individual labs just went on and on.

When Judy opened the door to the labs, at first we entered a small entry room with enclosed, refrigerated shelves, like the kinds in movies that hold vials of world-ending viruses. Then we passed through an open doorway and I beheld something I've been trying for two days to find words to describe. I should have taken a picture, but even its thousand words wouldn't adequately represent the feeling of what my eyes were gulping down. I couldn't see if the room ended, but certainly it must, since the building has outer walls.

Little machines whirred and swayed and spun and yet a controlled silence prevailed. The unending sight of lab cubicles offered to stretch my brain more than I could allow in one day, so I focused on the lab immediately before me. Clean, orderly, but how do they keep track! So impressive. I think most of all I sensed a profound respect for the efforts being made to find better treatments, to discover more about the body and its mysteries. The measly word I vocally managed to employ was "wow."

What would be most valuable to you, if it interests you, is go tour the Institute yourself. It was totally simple to call and set an appointment (To schedule a tour, contact Roni [said like Ronnie] Whittle at 801-587-9315), the tour is free and less than an hour, and Judy was super nice, and everyone else I saw had an appearance of niceness, and it's good to see things you don't live very far from---to become aware of what's right under your nose.

If you don't want to tour the Huntsman center (or don't live in Utah at all, say), go tour something that interests or puzzles you: 24,000 bits of question can be pieced together, no joke. You just need to do a little research to cure curiosity. Arrange a visit to a bank, a library, a historical site, a government building. I imagine pretty much every place is open to sincere inquisitors. If people have taken the time and made the effort to build a whole building around one painting, one idea, one cause, they obviously want people to know about it. Seriously, arrange a visit. You'll be thrilled with what you dig up in your own back yard.

In the very least, go take a can of tuna to your nearest food bank. Happy Thanksgiving.

Next up, the story of my mock mammogram experience. This post is long enough.

a post not exactly about breasts

My tire went almost-flat and I switched it out with my donut. I wore a pink and white striped knee-length skirt (and of course no bra) while I did this. Then I went inside and made pumpkin chocolate chip cookies that are fantastic. I mostly followed this recipe but instead of eggs and seasonings I used up the rest of the pumpkin pie filling (that already had eggs and seasonings in it) that I'd made a few weeks back...luckily it was still good because I wanted these cookies. I ate four, he left with 8 or 9. There are at least 35 left. Yeah, lots of cookies.

He and I, to use familiar vernacular, "updated our relationship status." We'll date, but not exclusively. That's fine. I feel quite fine about it. I'm updated, up to date, down to date him and whomever. That's la vie.

I told him he needed to date so he could be sure he'll find whom he needs. He asked me 'what do you need?' I spoke for a moment about how I need a man who loves God and honors the Priesthood power He accords him, but who can still relate with the world. Not partake of it, say, but just know how to maneuver through it without letting it get him haughty or naughty. heh. I just made that up. And then I mentioned how I hope I will marry a man who is patient and kind. Not because I'm necessarily obnoxious and mean, for to need a balance, but just that, like some humans, I can have moments where I'm self-absorbed and not exactly aware of others' needs. I try, but I do notice that I can just totally miss opportunities to praise and recognize what wonderful things they do and how wonderful they are. In general I try to recognize this; however, I am not perfect.

I told him I used to be more thoughtful and considerate. Then there were certain boys who came along and sort of broke me down, and now I don't care as much. It was a good thing at first. I cared more than those boys wanted me to, so, to rid myself of the ridiculous stress of imbalanced romantical reciprocation, I learned myself how to turn off caring. I had to turn off the caring because I unwisely decided that it was somehow preferable to remain in contact with a soul-sucking person who didn't care and match myself with their level of not-caring than to move on and find someone who deserved my caring. Instead of ridding myself of the boy, I rid myself of the caring.

Let this single-line paragraph emphasize to you that this practice is lame: lame because it cripples.

My eyes drew distant memories on the wall and I stared blankly at them as I spoke to answer his question. Then my eyes decided they were done drawing and wanted to play cowboy. Wrangling alongside some galloping emotions, my eyes lassoed in a few tears.

He stated that I was crying and wiped away a tear. This was funny to me. Guys are rarely comfortable with the release of woman tears. I bet they wish there was some way of capturing these mysterious microorganisms and dissecting them, to understand what they're made of, how they really form. He informed me that I was crying, not because I didn't know that I was crying, but because he didn't know what to say, but that probably something should be said. He asked if he made me cry. I assured him no. He asked me why, then. My right shoulder shrugged toward my chin and I said, 'sometimes my emotions come out my eyes.'

Guys, there come times when a woman cries. It is safe to assume it could be because of you, because that can make you tender, make you stop and think and ask and comfort; but, you know, sometimes the emotions truly do just get pent up a bit too long and they flutter free from those glassy windows that open to her soul. Sometimes the words that are trying so hard to escape through the lips can't find a way, so their only route to expression is to dissolve out through the eyes.

Other times she thinks of a sad story and makes herself a character in it. Sometimes that sad story is her own past and the pale humor of irony mixes with tears, watercolors of reality to fill in the permanent outline of that past, for her to paint a new understanding of it.

That's basically what I was doing. We all have a sad story, at least one. Momentarily I remembered the character I played in that story and I wept for her. Just a few tears.

He told me I'm beautiful. I wasn't seeking any compliment; my tears just came. But it was nice to hear anyway. So what if the tears are what brought the words from him. It's nice to hear.

I still care. But after all that pageantry I made myself go through in the past, icing on the fake smile so that my heart might believe that I didn't truly care, eventually she believed that she didn't truly care. Now it's hard to turn on again.

Sometimes I think of the opening line in that groovy song Black Horse and a Cherry Tree by KT Tunstall. "Well my heart knows me better than I know myself, so I'm gonna let it do all the talking."

If instead I had let my heart speak, and then listened to her, I would have dropped the boys that she knew were no good for her. Instead my emotions absorbed my attention and I "stopped [her] dead for a beat or two" so I could do things my own way, and she hasn't forgiven me yet. I thought she didn't know what she wanted, I wasn't sure how to trust her. Now I recognize that she has had a very keen intuition all along, and, now she doesn't trust me with it. I kept thinking I need a change of heart, that she needs to be healed because she's broken, or has been broken. But I think maybe she's fine.

I need a change of impression.

And that reminds me. I'm going to experience the pressure of a mammogram this week, in the spirit of breast awareness. Hot dog, is that ever going to make me aware of my breasts. Just because I haven't reliably posted about my experiment this week doesn't mean I haven't been being aware; it's just that you're not aware that I'm aware. But I am. Stay tuned.