http://sundayeveningspost.com/2012/04/08/easter-earnest/
Happy Easter to all, for it truly commemorates an occasion for all to celebrate!
Sunday, April 08, 2012
Happy Easter
I started a WordPress blog called Sunday Evenings Post. I figure it will be a great way to get me to study a certain gospel topic more deeply and then write and send a letter to the world each week. Today it's Easter. The letter sent to you today from Sunday Evenings Post is Easter Earnest:
http://sundayeveningspost.com/2012/04/08/easter-earnest/
Happy Easter to all, for it truly commemorates an occasion for all to celebrate!
http://sundayeveningspost.com/2012/04/08/easter-earnest/
Happy Easter to all, for it truly commemorates an occasion for all to celebrate!
Monday, April 02, 2012
off with her head
In my life, I have never fainted.
Okay, it's not good to start a blog post with a non-truth.
It has been exactly a very long time since the first and only time I ever fainted. But it was not natural. It happened at grandma's house in Oregon. A few of us had observed somewhere that if we wanted to experience a safe fainting, there was a way. We would first need to stand against a flat surface, like a wall, or our choice: a glass door; second, take calm, deep breaths as sibling or cousin firmly pressed their meaty palms on both carotid arteries, pushing the neck back toward the window until, three, the blood supply in the skull above their strangling hands was restricted enough to require the body to droop limply and level itself to the ground in hopes of evening out the juices.
Kids are experimentally stupid.
I distinctly remember the strange breathing sound I made with a disc-shaped neck. I don't remember the feeling leading up to the drop, but my recollection can still see clearly what my mind saw in the blackness of that cerebral restart: I saw myself curled up on the floor next to the edge of Grandma's couch, plain and simple. Then I came to, curled up instead where I'd fallen next to the glass door, rays of sunshine warming the carpet and my body indifferently.
It still seems strange to me that I pictured anything at all during those few seconds of darkness, but I puzzle sometimes why I saw myself only feet away from myself, curled up much the same as the self curled up in reality. But that is rather true to what I've learned to be, at times, the rather unimaginative subconscious floating within me. Sure I have some wicked crazy thoughts and dreams, but then sometimes, especially those times where you want to go a little crazy, my realistic nature interferes and my dreams continue along much too truly to life.
I got up and went away. I never wanted to faint again. I never have. Today, I almost did.
After three too-short hours of sleep, I found myself standing in the temple. This is not a dream, this is real. A lot of standing goes on when you're a volunteer ordinance worker at the temple. I try to keep my knees unlocked, keep my weight shifting from foot to foot, bounce up or squat down when no one's looking, just to keep my blood moving and myself alert.
I was nearing the very end of the eighth hour. Someone would come to replace me momentarily. Extreme fatigue was circling my weakened brain like a skeletal coyote. Normally I can shoo it away when I'm animated: speaking, moving, keeping alert. But this time I was trapped. I was mid-speaking, blessing a sweet sister, when something I've never felt before started happening.
My muscles heated up. All my vitals were pushing the temperature needle into the solid red warning side of acceptable. I'd been feeling spurts of a similar heat flash, mostly sprouting from my chest, so I figured it was yet another brief moment of heat that would pass. But then came the detachment of my head.
Figuratively speaking, of course. Words formed in slow puffs of air in my mouth, sent dreamily from my abandoned lungs. I did my best to keep the words coming, but my head emptied, floating. My hands too soon felt tied to thick balloons. I recognized the rest of my body would soon droop limply so finally that life-preserving realistic part of me sent the words, 'sorry, I'm feeling suddenly. . . really light headed.'
The sweet sister jumped from her chair and let me drop down in her place. I held on to the chair's arms and closed my eyes. A distinct clover/four-pointed star pattern glazed the back of my eyelids.
Another sister came to my side and said she would finish what I started and I moved to a different stool. The drippings of a feasting coyote formed steady tears in my eyes. Moments later my replacement came; she clearly saw the stress in my whole frame and, as she asked if I was okay and I blankly nodded, my body walked me away to get my stuff to go home.
I was a regular zombie. Actually, I think I suddenly knew what it was like for Westley from The Princess Bride after first experiencing that life-sucking machine, or perhaps what it feels like to come lip to lip with a Dementor. I couldn't stop the tears, the sobbing. It was as if I was mourning something. Part of me had left, something was gone indefinitely.
In the locker room, gratefully alone, my uncontrollable sobbing mingled with mild hysterics. I pictured my deplorable condition as if I were an onlooker who knew my recent history of high-stress and low-rest and it made me crack a little more; a pitiful laugh would escape only to be immediately swallowed in curling sobs.
Leaving the locker room a few minutes later, composed just enough, I looked at my eyes as displayed in a mirror. I'd never seen them iced in that shade of red before. They reflected well how I felt on the inside. I went home, turned my needy phone to silent. Slept from 10am to 3pm.
Whatever I lost today, at least I still have my head. . . .
What I need is a massage. One that comes with a free husband. Anyone know any sweet deals?
Okay, it's not good to start a blog post with a non-truth.
It has been exactly a very long time since the first and only time I ever fainted. But it was not natural. It happened at grandma's house in Oregon. A few of us had observed somewhere that if we wanted to experience a safe fainting, there was a way. We would first need to stand against a flat surface, like a wall, or our choice: a glass door; second, take calm, deep breaths as sibling or cousin firmly pressed their meaty palms on both carotid arteries, pushing the neck back toward the window until, three, the blood supply in the skull above their strangling hands was restricted enough to require the body to droop limply and level itself to the ground in hopes of evening out the juices.
Kids are experimentally stupid.
I distinctly remember the strange breathing sound I made with a disc-shaped neck. I don't remember the feeling leading up to the drop, but my recollection can still see clearly what my mind saw in the blackness of that cerebral restart: I saw myself curled up on the floor next to the edge of Grandma's couch, plain and simple. Then I came to, curled up instead where I'd fallen next to the glass door, rays of sunshine warming the carpet and my body indifferently.
It still seems strange to me that I pictured anything at all during those few seconds of darkness, but I puzzle sometimes why I saw myself only feet away from myself, curled up much the same as the self curled up in reality. But that is rather true to what I've learned to be, at times, the rather unimaginative subconscious floating within me. Sure I have some wicked crazy thoughts and dreams, but then sometimes, especially those times where you want to go a little crazy, my realistic nature interferes and my dreams continue along much too truly to life.
I got up and went away. I never wanted to faint again. I never have. Today, I almost did.
After three too-short hours of sleep, I found myself standing in the temple. This is not a dream, this is real. A lot of standing goes on when you're a volunteer ordinance worker at the temple. I try to keep my knees unlocked, keep my weight shifting from foot to foot, bounce up or squat down when no one's looking, just to keep my blood moving and myself alert.
I was nearing the very end of the eighth hour. Someone would come to replace me momentarily. Extreme fatigue was circling my weakened brain like a skeletal coyote. Normally I can shoo it away when I'm animated: speaking, moving, keeping alert. But this time I was trapped. I was mid-speaking, blessing a sweet sister, when something I've never felt before started happening.
My muscles heated up. All my vitals were pushing the temperature needle into the solid red warning side of acceptable. I'd been feeling spurts of a similar heat flash, mostly sprouting from my chest, so I figured it was yet another brief moment of heat that would pass. But then came the detachment of my head.
Figuratively speaking, of course. Words formed in slow puffs of air in my mouth, sent dreamily from my abandoned lungs. I did my best to keep the words coming, but my head emptied, floating. My hands too soon felt tied to thick balloons. I recognized the rest of my body would soon droop limply so finally that life-preserving realistic part of me sent the words, 'sorry, I'm feeling suddenly. . . really light headed.'
The sweet sister jumped from her chair and let me drop down in her place. I held on to the chair's arms and closed my eyes. A distinct clover/four-pointed star pattern glazed the back of my eyelids.
 |
| sort of like this, except the color of shadow and flesh |
Another sister came to my side and said she would finish what I started and I moved to a different stool. The drippings of a feasting coyote formed steady tears in my eyes. Moments later my replacement came; she clearly saw the stress in my whole frame and, as she asked if I was okay and I blankly nodded, my body walked me away to get my stuff to go home.
I was a regular zombie. Actually, I think I suddenly knew what it was like for Westley from The Princess Bride after first experiencing that life-sucking machine, or perhaps what it feels like to come lip to lip with a Dementor. I couldn't stop the tears, the sobbing. It was as if I was mourning something. Part of me had left, something was gone indefinitely.
In the locker room, gratefully alone, my uncontrollable sobbing mingled with mild hysterics. I pictured my deplorable condition as if I were an onlooker who knew my recent history of high-stress and low-rest and it made me crack a little more; a pitiful laugh would escape only to be immediately swallowed in curling sobs.
Leaving the locker room a few minutes later, composed just enough, I looked at my eyes as displayed in a mirror. I'd never seen them iced in that shade of red before. They reflected well how I felt on the inside. I went home, turned my needy phone to silent. Slept from 10am to 3pm.
Whatever I lost today, at least I still have my head. . . .
What I need is a massage. One that comes with a free husband. Anyone know any sweet deals?
Sunday, March 25, 2012
24 short-stemmed proses
Currently, my boyfriend, which I received on valentine's day, is soaking in a glass, trying his plasticy hardest to grow four times bigger and become the man I need.
So, while he fails, I am going to describe 24 real men, men who have made me happy in the past year (or many years) to some degree, as a way of paying tribute to the anonymous sender of 24 short-stemmed roses the morning of Tuesday, Feb 14, 2012.
Thanks to you, anonymous friend. So, here, in no particular order, is a heartfelt prose for each red rose, one for each man whose kindness and love has at some point been as petals enough to wrap and warm my heart all the year long.
1 Brad Fairchild
He's my dad. He would give me a rose because he cherishes me. Maybe I'm no perfect daughter, but I know he loves me and wants what's best for me and helps me now and again to get it. He inspires me constantly to work hard, to earn my many blessings. I love my dadda.
2 Daniel Sowards
I don't know that I could say enough about this man to ever fully represent the love in my heart for him. He's the kind of man that makes everyone else think they're his favorite. But I'm pretty sure I am indeed his favorite; but no matter, he's my favorite. I believe he would give me a rose the way Bert gives Mary Poppins field flowers that turn into butterflies when she smells them. That's just what people with magical love do for each other.
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| me, 4 friends of Daniel, Daniel. You may recognize the boy next to me as the one and only It Only Gets Stranger blog writer, Eli. So through Daniel I am also semi-friends with him. Also semi-famous. Probably. |
3 Jeremy Riddle
He is a star: immovable, a shining brightness in the dark moments, and he kind of sparkles. Truly. He's real, that's what I love. He tells me how it is, asks me sincerely how I'm doing and listens until I sincerely answer. He would give me a rose like he would give me a hand. He is gentle and loving, he will be a wonderful husband and father.
 |
| jeremy and me, small pic :/ |
4 Kevin Stuart
If you're in need of a true and loyal friend, find Kevin. Here's a guy who sticks up for himself, but also for the little guy. He's beyond generous and wholly friendly. I don't think there's anyone in the world he wouldn't befriend if they'd let him. And boy, therefore, does he have connections. Somehow he always knows someone who knows someone who knows exactly what would help in whatever situation. I'm probably not much of a connection for him, but I'm glad he knows me and keeps me as a friend. He's got roses for everyone, just because he cares that you're happy.
5 Jason Bartlett
Since there's only one of him, if you never meet Jason, you'll miss out on knowing the most attentive and thoughtful man on the planet. Once a group of us went on an overnight fishing trip in Alaska and I bemoaned my forgotten toothbrush. When he and another friend went to buy firewood, then came back, he came over and handed me a toothbrush. He would likewise bring me a flower. He's a heart-warmer at just the right temperature. Plus, he sent me this:
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| popcorn factory fun!! |
6 Brandon "Sweetheart" Donadt
Thinking of him lights up my face. He's usually crude and sassy, but he has an undeniable sweetness, too. I met him in Alaska and we connected because I'm deeply mormon and he's deeply metaphysical, and he inspired me to just let loose and have more fun with life. I really appreciate that. If he sent me flowers his girlfriend would flip, but he'd whisper "rose" in the universe and I believe I'd hear it somehow.
 |
| Matt, Kevin, me, Jason, Heath, Sweetheart. All great friends! |
7 Craig Collette
He's funny and energetic and nice, buff and good looking; ladies, if you love high adventure you should look him up. There's something about Craig that just soothes every care. I forget I have any when I'm around him, he's so positive and forward-moving with life. He gives me roses of energized optimism, that boy.
8 Seth Coombs
Oh, Sethy. I love him. You know that awesome feeling you get when you and another are laughing at an inside joke? That's how being around Seth always makes me feel. He'd have a rose waiting for me at home, because that's the way I feel whenever I get to see him, like I'm coming home. :)
 |
| we love ice cream, Seth and I |
9 Grandpa Bowen
Father of ten children including my mother, WWII navy sailor, 3-year missionary in Brazil, counselor for married couples and families--this man has left unfading footprints of good all over the world. In his old age as he slowly loses footing on the current reality in which he lives, I am honored to be a physical product of his goodness and will never forget the many great things his life has brought to mine. The rose he would send would carry the scent of eternal grandpa love, which smells something like chimney fires, newspapers, button up shirts, and Eastern Oregon wind.
10 Aaron and Jason Fairchild
My brothers make me laugh. If I didn't have brothers, well, I'd only have sisters, and what kind of life would that be? Aaron reminds me that responsible and professional people do best when they maintain a sense of humor. Jason reminds me that you can push yourself to be the best even when others may have been blessed with more "natural" talent. My brothers would split the cost of a rose and send it to me from Amazon, and I would open the package with Christmas morning delight, knowing they were thinking of their sis.
 |
| Here are my brothers, and my sisters. This photo was featured in Awkward Family Photos (it's on the board game. See, I'm not even semi-famous. Totally famous |
11 Khalid Zeineddine
Here's a man who won't kid himself and has sincere care for bettering himself and others. He is a loyal man, loyal to truth and freedom, wherever they are found. I admire that he went from not knowing God, to loving and praying to Him, using his head and heart. It is beautiful to see anyone come to know that God truly cares about him or her specifically and eternally; it was a privilege to witness Khalid open himself to that knowledge. He continues to inspire me, giving me roses that blossom with thoughtful attention to detail, always displaying a sincere energy for life.
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| me, Khalid, Maryna Kryvenko |
12 Corey Sherwin
Few men have ever succeeded in making me laugh as much as this one. He has cured many a drooping spirits with his singular dose of laughter medicine. He is dedicated and hard working, but never forgets to laugh. I love people like that. Well, and Corey maintains a certain cynicism that is like the pepper that balances the salt of the world. The way I see it, Corey would give me a fake rose. Not because he's by any means unromantic, but because he would remember that cut roses die quickly, especially because I'm inherently an indoor plant killer (unredeemable neglect) and that I'd then throw them away, but he would see the sense in having me remember him year round. I like that. Makes perfect sense.
13 Darek Purcell
I won't be surprised to one day look in the wikipedia and see his picture displayed under the page all about loyalty. It's not like he has any reason to be loyal to me in particular, that's just his personality, he's loyal. Loyal first to himself, and dedicated to good causes and good people. I appreciate that I can be totally myself around him, which is a rare species of rose right there. And then, he's a fountain of depthless knowledge. He's a great one to hang around and learn many new things from!
14 Michael Hammon
Do you know people who never fail to bring a smile to your face when you think of them or see them? Michael is one such friend for me. He's busy and I'm busy so we don't really spend time together, but whenever I see him at church, I get a new determination to just be happier. I love that unspoken quality he has. But then, when he does speak, you'll soon have tears flowing for how much humor he pours into your mind. Roses along the roadside that I take a moment to stop and smell.
15 Leandrew Tirrell
Quick like a gazelle. He told me to write that. He's funny and loving. He really seems more cuddly like a koala, but he's my home teacher, so I don't think of cuddling him. ;) But he's sincere and caring, so makes a great home teacher and friend. And he's a nurse, or "murse" as I've heard said. He'd bring me a rose to make me feel better any time I needed it.
16 Jay Wanzer
Baby Jay is my hero. I don't know what else to say. He'll talk smack, he'll act rough and tough on the outside, but you will never find a harder worker, a more faithful Christian, or a man more fiercely devoted to me...I know that sounds egotistical or conceited, but how can I assure you that I most humbly acknowledge that he is far better to me than I ever deserve? His roses give my heart a humble prick and I will always love my baby Jay.
 |
| Jay and I are on the right; looks like he's about to pinch something he shouldn't |
17 Graham Bradley
Now, Graham is married, so he wouldn't be giving me roses; but, figuratively speaking, he sends me inspiration to reach beyond my abilities and just 'get to work' on my dreams. That's what he himself always does, and his passion and energy are the type to inspire anyone, especially writers, that hard work and determination will take your talents to the top. Be on the look out, some day he'll be famous.
18 Thomas Bowen
Uncle Tom has always inspired me to be upbeat, no matter what happens. Even when we make mistakes, there's a way to turn around and make things right. I love him for his generous heart, forgiving nature, and unmatched creative gusto. He would give me a rose to cheer me up, any time. That's what our conversations always do for me!
19 Matthew Walker
He won't give up on anyone. He'll always urge me to do better, keep creating and using my talents. I'm grateful for his persistence, because when I feel complacent, he reminds me to be humble and return to the basics, and create with purity of intent. Maybe he doesn't know he does this for me; Matthew is a modest fellow, he'd never talk himself up. But he loves the beauty in life, and together we make up analogies and other ways to see that beauty around us, then we share it. He gives me wild rose bushes: the kind that keep on giving.
20 Nate Crenshaw
If I were to pair myself with a friendly intellectual rival, that would be Nate. We have no fear challenging each other's self-supposed brilliance. His way of thinking makes my way of thinking work harder to justify itself. And if it doesn't come up with a good reason, I reconsider. That's a good power to have in a friend. Nate gives me roses of wisdom, thorns and all.
21 Sean Smith
He's my cooking buddy. This guy is an endless sausage tube of advice and other entertaining things, I tell you what. If you want random and nuts, Sean's your man. He's honest, steady and goofy, a refreshing scent in the bouquet. Really, this kid owns some serious real estate in the field of charm and wooing. He'd give me a rose because he's a die hard romantic.
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| in the kitchen where he belongs |
22 Cameron and Caleb Bosley
Okay, so they aren't of the age of men yet, but, one on the shoulders of the other, they measure up to the height of a man. We wrestle and spin till we're (I'm) sick. They would give me one rose from the both of them, because they know deep down they love their Auntie Em (but only if I first gave them a piece of gum to split). And I would add their father, Brian because if roses were laughter I'd have dozens a day from him. He even mentioned, regarding this blog post idea and the anonymous person who sent them: "Short-stemmed, huh? You know what that means. He's shorter than you and he feels like he can't approach you." See? Funny.
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| i love love love them |
 |
| also this picture is the most epic |
23 Axel Giraud and Williams Bastide
Ces deux hommes sont des anges à Nimes, France. Mes freres et mes amis, ils sont remplis de gentiesse et d'amour. Ils m'inspirent et encouragent, parce que ce n'est pas facile à vivre en France et avoir la foi en Jésus-Christ, mais les deux sont forts et fidels au pouvoirs de la Pretrise qui leur ont été donnés. Ils me donneraient une rose parce qu'ils sont les vrais messieurs ("gentlemen").
 |
| Williams, sr Walton, jean-marc, Axel |
Ah, now here's a great fellow to end on. Tim is the sort that inspires and supports dreams. If Tim says you can, believe it, and believe he will believe in you to the end. He will also make your belly ache for all the good laughs he'll cook up and feed you. He's kind of quiet and maybe seems shy at times, but he's a real riot. He owns a jeep. He's an artist and moviemaker. Tim would give me a rose to make me smile. Always, always can make me smile.
As I contemplated which 24 names to tribute, I realized this is by NO means a comprehensive list of the many awesome men (like you, if you're reading this, are male, and aren't on the list) who have enriched my life in some small or major way!
 |
Friday, March 16, 2012
Hunger Games Ends
You may have heard of the Hunger Games series. Three novels
tell about a society divided into twelve districts that are controlled by a generally
heartless governing power housed at the Capitol. The Hunger Games are a
political punishment enforced by the Capitol on the twelve districts of Panem
in remembrance of past rebellion, to keep it clear in the minds of all citizens
who has, and always will have, the control. Every year a human harvest is
reaped in the twelve districts of Panem, and two citizens from each district,
one male and one female tribute ages twelve to eighteen, are forced to battle
each other to the death in a Capitol-rigged arena. The last one left alive is
taken back to his or her isolated district with an increase of provisions for
all, then forever more becomes mentor to the future tributes chosen from his or
her district for the next Hunger Games.
You may have read one or all of the books in the series. You
may have your opinion, and you may have expressed it.
Well, I've had it. There is no "here" up to which
I can say I've had it, because it has gone far higher than "here" can
reach. And it only gets higher the more I hear:
the mild and uncommitted,
"I really didn't like the way the series ended."
the excruciatingly horrifying,
"It's just like Twilight."
and, the dishearteningly under-educated,
"If you're reading for entertainment, skip the third
book, it's awful!"
To give you an idea where I'm coming from, here is an
overview of my opinions of recent and massively popular Young Adult literature:
Harry Potter series: practically perfect; complete story,
very few holes, start to finish writing and entertainment consistent.
J.K. Rowling: brilliant; created a new world that inspires
creativity in our own.
Twilight series: I only made it, begrudgingly, through book
two; start to finish uninteresting characters, logical inconsistencies (or
perhaps illogical consistencies, as she made up all her own absurd rules and
stuck to them), and hollow
entertainment.
Stephanie Meyer: ruined the words/names twilight and
eclipse, Edward and Jacob.
Hunger Games series: practically perfect; complete story,
incredible first-person present writing, start to finish compelling plot and
characters, impressive young-age protagonist development.
Suzanne Collins: created a world that makes us rethink the
power and potential in our own, as well as in ourselves. gifted writer.
First, to those who think The Hunger Games was like
Twilight
I will be the first to openly acknowledge the inequality of my argument in
comparing the Twilight and Hunger Games series, since I did not finish the
former. Were someone to complain (for reasons certainly unfounded), "I do
not like the protagonist (Katniss) in book one of the Hunger Games," I
would soundly counsel him or her to continue, to see the rounded development
that happens in the next two books. If by chance this person were then to
stipulate that he or she would only read on in the Hunger Games series if I
also continued the Twilight series to its pungent end, I would then present
this argument:
If a protagonist is the champion or advocate of a particular idea, ideal, or cause, I do not want to read a story about an empty-headed misfit and the dead man who finds her decayingly attractive. I have read enough words about her to know that any personal realization she makes will not benefit my creative powers or my understanding of whatever cause Twilight pretends to champion to the world. The two protagonists are remarkably different; and the stories they tell have an even wider gap of things in common (pretty much infinity-zero).
If a protagonist is the champion or advocate of a particular idea, ideal, or cause, I do not want to read a story about an empty-headed misfit and the dead man who finds her decayingly attractive. I have read enough words about her to know that any personal realization she makes will not benefit my creative powers or my understanding of whatever cause Twilight pretends to champion to the world. The two protagonists are remarkably different; and the stories they tell have an even wider gap of things in common (pretty much infinity-zero).
Katniss Everdeen is, in the literarily literal sense, a
veritable champion. The Hunger Games chose her to represent the cause of
youth's deep-rooted ability to surmount the confusion of life's harried efforts
to cast them aside. Bella champions the Twilight idea that when you get uprooted, be reckless and impulsive.
Katniss is first presented to us as a scavenger and survivor.
She will do anything to keep her family and friends fed and free from harm,
alive and safe. Her father died and she provides for her mother and sister best she can. Bella (and now, it has been a while since I read her story, and since I have meanwhile been burying it with better stories and images, my remembrances may produce askew judgments) has divorced parents, she mostly complains and tries to keep away from too much family time.
Katniss maintains her loyalties to family when she volunteers to be tribute in her sister's place, is thrown into battle, and into a face-saving relationship with Peeta. In that
unexpected relationship, she faces the uncertainties of young love with
reserved skepticism (instead of heedless rebellion against her family's counsel).
She considers where she has come from as she calculates her every choice and
its consequences. I think Edward gets the cold shoulder (pun intended) from Bella at first, but does she, after falling for him, think much of the consequences of her choices? I know in the second book all she tries to do is put herself in danger so she can sense Edward's familiar presence.
Bella puts herself in danger...and I suppose so did Katniss, but to save someone else from danger, not to be melodramatic because of lost love. Because the lives of her family and friends, and her own, are
in danger, Katniss uses the facade of love for Peeta for how it serves to
preserve their lives. Bella cared for little more than her sad and lonely life
to find a little sparkle in the scarce Washington sunlight.
Bella didn't want a boyfriend, she wanted
to pout about. Edward caught scent of the newcomer, and, discovering her head
to be completely void of thought, found her refreshingly attractive. There may
be many girls who relate to this situation (or wish to) (unfortunately).
Katniss also didn't want a boyfriend. She
has a good friend, Gale, whom she trusts and knows as dependable and faithful,
but she didn't think of him as more than that. I think many, many girls can
relate to this. We have male friends we've known for however many years that
have built trust within us, and, until distance of time or circumstance
challenges the tether of those trust-ties, most of us girls don't consider him
as more than a friend. But in those circumstances we might question, do we love
him because we trust him? because we are faithful friends? because of our
experiences together? That's a readily common, real life, internal debate we
all have at some time or another.
The female audience of Twilight enjoyed the unreal ease with
which Bella and Edward set fire to the pages, finding each other fatally drawn
one to another. Certain girls love to read this because it rarely happens in
real life, because it tickles the tendrils of suppressed, explosive
desire. (Yes, both stories are fiction, I know. Vampires and werewolves aren't real life, you say, just let me pretend, dang it? Go right ahead. Just remember not to try later to apply that fiction to real life when it only works in fiction.)
Certain other girls are aware that those short-fused
feelings are very fleeting, disposable, without substance. These girls
appreciate Katniss, her honesty and realness despite her obvious fictitious status. They recognize that
substantial love will only be extracted from life with substantial effort. Maybe
Katniss does make love seem harder than it should be in usual life--what with being under stress
of battle and all--but her weighted deliberation is true to life. Things like
love don't figure themselves out in a glance, in a kiss. Volumes of love can be
communicated in these briefest moments, yes, but to believe you've gained a
full understanding of love after those steps is to risk leaping into a darkness
where nothing waits to catch your falling heart.
So perhaps there are evident reasons that may cause one to compare
the protagonists Katniss and Bella. However, to state simply, "Hunger Games is like
Twilight," is an extremely hollow, unwarranted comparison. There are too many
blaring differences in the fundamental causes championed by each story. One
story invites a girl to stand strong and immoveable in a crumbling society; the
other proposes to a girl to crumble under intense infatuation. One protagonist is a heroine, the other is a pill: a supplement; or perhaps even less than that: a
placebo.
It would be interesting to present both of these series to
the Panem citizens of the Capitol. Which set of book-based movies would they prefer
watching? I would confidently wager that, for quickest injection of sugar-rush
entertainment, Capitol citizens would prefer Twilight to Hunger Games. Because
to those in the Capitol, entertainment does not involve thinking.
This leads to my next response to those who say:
"If you're reading for entertainment, skip the third book, it's awful!"
"If you're reading for entertainment, skip the third book, it's awful!"
How that sets me off! Okay, calmly now....
Under this circumstance quoted above, we're going to assume
that if you have chosen to read, you are hoping to be entertained. You've heard from a reliable comrade that Hunger Games is good, so
you're giving it a chance. As you go through the first book you're thinking, this
is nice, I'll keep going. But, by the end of the third book you're being
quoted here as thinking that "it's awful." Now I ask you, have you stopped to
ask yourself why?
Is it well written? Yes. Let me assure you, Collins' use of
first person present tense was impressively executed. Not only is that an unfamiliar point of view to read, but it can be a challenge to maintain a consistent grasp of the story and the author is extremely limited in what information can be transmitted. Using this point of view, we as readers never
know what's about to happen next; we are with Katniss only insofar as she is
conscious and learning and observing things in the present moment. What an
awesome form to fit the content. If you think it wasn't well written, defend
yourself.
Is it gruesome and sad, the way war always is with life?
Yes. What were you thinking, after the first book, that the third book might
be? Planting flowers and kisses, making babies and happiness? I think those readers disappointed at the end of Mockingjay lost sight of those fundamental
causes championed by the various, bold characters. It is not fundamentally
about a girl trying to entertain an audience with a saga about love. It is not
solely about war, poverty, starvation, political corruption and rebellion. It
is about the human will to unite for freedom, to refuse to be a mere peon in
the games of the controlling forces, and to live. And sometimes, die.
Did it disappoint you that just about everyone heralding the
cause for liberty and love was killed in the attempt? Did you connect to the
characters, and then, seeing the author kill them off, it upset you? I
continually marveled at the natural progression of the story. So many times,
I saw the characters headed for predictable events of traditional fiction, and
then the real life of the story breathed, and blew my expectations--and
the characters--off course. In no way was I disappointed that the characters
were forced to deal with surprise, loss, traps and setbacks of the sort I
could never expect. Indeed it thrilled me.
Or, did you predict it all, is that why you were
disappointed? The odds of that possibility don't seem to be in your favor. And
there's no way you could prove such a claim, so we won't even argue that here.
So, if you were looking to be entertained and the third book didn't meet your expectations, what were your expectations? Why is it "awful" in your opinion? (If you say because she didn't end up with Gale, like you'd hoped, I'll poke you in the eyes so that you can't read and then you will never have to be disappointed in reading ever again. There are going to be a lot of stories that are entertaining but that aren't trying to entertain your lustful desires and cater a happily ever after--but these won't be entertaining to you. And that says more about you than the stories. So instead of saying "I'm reading for entertainment, but this book--it's awful," say, "I'm a shallow reader and need instant entertainment and this book did not deliver it; I know, it's awful.")
Now we address
the following pitiful remark:
"I really didn't like the way the series ended."
I had heard all of the above criticisms before I read any of the
Hunger Games series, and as I was reaching the last 150 pages of Mockingjay, I
started experiencing a strange end-of-story anxiety that I had never felt
before in my life. And I've read plenty of stories to their perturbing ends in
my 27 years. I really, really, really didn't want Mockingjay to
disappoint me. I didn't suspect it would, but what was it in the books that was
causing some people to say that?
At one point in Mockingjay, before Katniss and her small band of doomed
followers is about to storm the Capitol, I had to stop. I stopped mid-chapter,
knowing any chapter ending would suck me in to the next unstoppable current of
action. And for a whole day I let the untiring beast of suspense claw at my
mind, less about what would happen next, but about what would disappoint me. I really
felt I couldn't handle being disappointed after having been so well entertained.
Here's what I wrote about it that tortuous day:
"So when it ends, what’s the big deal, Emily? Will I
like the ending? Does that matter? Is that what I wonder? No. Am I riding on a
literary horse, expecting the end to be narratively triumphant? I am. I don’t
expect to be disappointed on that front.
Perhaps it’s the fact that I could read the books over and
over and they would always be the same and I already know I can’t change,
no, I can’t extend the ending. If Katniss dies, the story does. It’s hers;
she’s the first person, the only person. All the characters, the entire story, because of her. I will have the sense that Panem will “live on” but I have only
ever been reading Katniss’s story. Even if Katniss doesn’t die, she will die
when the words end, because she is present.
Perhaps…perhaps I am anxious because the story is like my
own life, my journal. As I write and live, I am present. Unlike Katniss,
however, I live without pages marking my end, I am present, but my end is
somewhere; only, it’s not measured in thickness of numbered pages left. But
her present is. Her present has a past and future as I hold the book in my
hands. It’s impossible. The end of Hunger Games will come, and it will still be
her present. As she is the reason her life is living, she is only ever
presented through her own view in the present. Her death will never be in the
past, because she will not survive it; her survival will only be in the
past--in my memories, which, ironically, only exist when drawn and replayed
ever in the present consciousness. It’s uncanny.
I will feel like I’m killing her if I read to the end, even
if her character doesn’t die. She will end. I will kill her. Great, Suzanne,
I’m just another starving player reading in your games. I will be the only
survivor. The odds were only ever in my favor."
As you can see, I was trippin. ha. The story, mixed with
the reviews and criticism of other people really did a number on my mind. But
then, I simply stopped with all the brain-frazzling drama and read to the end. I
knew it would be an impossibility not to finish. This is what I said after the
end (warning definite spoilers below):
"When I recommenced my role as literary tribute in the Hunger
Games, I realized my thought patterns easily re-merged in to the first person
narration by Katniss. For two books already I had been hearing her tell me the
story, and I felt I could somewhat predict what her reaction to the action
would be. But that was the illusory power of the narration, of the story: I
felt as though I were in the present with Katniss herself.
I held my breath while we hid in the basement shelter. I kept on my guard as we tried to blend in with the flow of refugees pressing on toward the President's mansion. My mouth was left gaping as the little girl in the yellow coat slumped over dead, red bullet buttons down her back. I knew we were trying to make our way to the President’s mansion, but somehow I knew we would never enter. How could we? If opportunity arose to assassinate the President, it would only be from a distance, if he even showed himself in public, and then we might have a shot. Somehow I knew it was a failed mission, but I would stay with them to the end.
I held my breath while we hid in the basement shelter. I kept on my guard as we tried to blend in with the flow of refugees pressing on toward the President's mansion. My mouth was left gaping as the little girl in the yellow coat slumped over dead, red bullet buttons down her back. I knew we were trying to make our way to the President’s mansion, but somehow I knew we would never enter. How could we? If opportunity arose to assassinate the President, it would only be from a distance, if he even showed himself in public, and then we might have a shot. Somehow I knew it was a failed mission, but I would stay with them to the end.
No, I did not expect to see Prim show up and die in one brief
page. But it didn’t surprise me. We already knew President Coin was using
Katniss in as much a strategy of her own as was President Snow. We don’t love
that it was probably Gale’s trap conception that led to Prim’s death, to Katniss’s
further physical and emotional injury. We don’t know why a lot of things happen
in war. Any strategy successful against the enemy is instrumental in
controlling the friendly, forcing them to compliance. I’m certain the rebels
somehow knew where Katniss was the whole time. Perhaps they hoped she would be
a casualty of those silver parachute bombs. It was a reliable prediction that
she would get close enough to her sister the moment she knew Prim was there.
All Katniss wanted to do was protect her sister, even if it meant death. That
was her hope, but not the fiction’s reality.
When she was repaired enough to walk, but not yet talk, and President Coin said she had saved President Snow for Katniss to kill, I
knew without doubt we would kill President Coin. And when Katniss stared at the
tied up Snow, arrow at the ready, I was also ready, turning the drawn arrow on
President Coin. And since, as emotional Avox, Katniss would not speak, as I read I spoke
for her: “Game Over, Pres. No one voted for you.”
Some people have complained about the ending, that it either
felt rushed to meet a deadline, or incomplete somehow. Maybe it's because I'm a writer, too, but I recognized a fantastic ending. I was stressed that it was
going to disappoint me. I kept looking for the disappointment, waiting for it,
waiting for it. I was so relieved it never came.
Here is why you never let what others think influence
your way of reading: it ended perfectly. Not “awful” or “unexpected”;
nay, perfect."
How do you end a story about war? Even true war stories,
where do they end? If you've read stories by Tobias Wolff or Tim O'Brien, you know from the start how they own up to the impossibility of ending their war stories, or of telling the whole truth. That same idea should be evident in Hunger Games, especially considering how Katniss is the only lens through which the series is seen.
Katniss, Gale, Peeta, Prim, they were all introduced as being one way in the first book, with various weaknesses and strengths, but each one was dramatically changed by war. No matter what strengths you believe you have before entering war, if you survive it, you are altered. As you proceed through war, your every expectation for life, love and liberty will splinter--in much the same way your friend's bones shatter when met with bullets that could just as easily have taken you--until you're left with a mute gelatin of survival instinct in place of that thriving hope that moved you to enlist and preserve freedom. In war, it is impossible not to change; it is impossible to find a moment where the story ends once it begins.
Katniss, Gale, Peeta, Prim, they were all introduced as being one way in the first book, with various weaknesses and strengths, but each one was dramatically changed by war. No matter what strengths you believe you have before entering war, if you survive it, you are altered. As you proceed through war, your every expectation for life, love and liberty will splinter--in much the same way your friend's bones shatter when met with bullets that could just as easily have taken you--until you're left with a mute gelatin of survival instinct in place of that thriving hope that moved you to enlist and preserve freedom. In war, it is impossible not to change; it is impossible to find a moment where the story ends once it begins.
So what should Katniss say at the "end" of her
story? Katniss told her story; she survived. She and her once-best friend and hopeful romance interest Gale had for so long been miscommunicating, that
their friendship and romance became casualties of the rebellion. Were you expecting them to
live happily ever after and that's why you're disappointed in how it ends? I
hope you were attentive enough to the amazing character development throughout
the series that this is not your expectation by the end.
Read closer and you'll see it all--see where Gale started fading into war and strategy, tainted by jealousy and disappointment, and therefore Katniss no longer had the sight to tell you what's going on in his life. See where Katniss discovered that real love comes from an unselfish place within. I saw this when she is shocked and hurt that Peeta no longer worshiped her, and she realized she must earn his admiration, and help him overcome his brainwashed anger. She finally convinces us (and maybe that cankerous President Snow) that she truly loves him. You'll see where Peeta's amazing heart overcame the poison in his mind, how he proved that he was never owned by the Capitol, and how he was finally chosen as husband by a woman impossible to tame. You'll remember that The Girl on Fire wasn't made President; she quietly retired to her home, and doesn't really know all the goings on in the new Capitol, let alone the other districts. It's all there--if you're looking for more than fuzzy, feel-good entertainment.
Read closer and you'll see it all--see where Gale started fading into war and strategy, tainted by jealousy and disappointment, and therefore Katniss no longer had the sight to tell you what's going on in his life. See where Katniss discovered that real love comes from an unselfish place within. I saw this when she is shocked and hurt that Peeta no longer worshiped her, and she realized she must earn his admiration, and help him overcome his brainwashed anger. She finally convinces us (and maybe that cankerous President Snow) that she truly loves him. You'll see where Peeta's amazing heart overcame the poison in his mind, how he proved that he was never owned by the Capitol, and how he was finally chosen as husband by a woman impossible to tame. You'll remember that The Girl on Fire wasn't made President; she quietly retired to her home, and doesn't really know all the goings on in the new Capitol, let alone the other districts. It's all there--if you're looking for more than fuzzy, feel-good entertainment.
I heard it said that the ending felt rushed, as though
Collins was racing to meet a deadline. I don't believe that for one second.
Someone who just spent however many years writing three compact and powerful, intelligent novels is not going to have to rush the end of her story to
meet a deadline. I believe she added the epilogue because she
knew her audience, her Capitol audience, would complain if there was no
resolution, no glimpse into the future, of what becomes of Katniss.
If I were Collins, I would be just about seething with spite, jabbing at each keyboard letter with two index fingers as I wrote the epilogue. Maybe she's much more gracious than I. I hope so, just
for her own sake, because graciousness is a rare beauty in this world of ours.
But, subjected to entertain her audience, the author isn't much more than a player
in the Publishing Games of selling books and making money. Her agent,
publisher, editor: they all knew she wouldn't sell a book without a "proper" ending.
Whose story is being told? Katniss' story. By whom is it
being told? Katniss. Although Collins is the vehicle for the story, it stops coming when Katniss stops telling it. Any creative writer will understand
this--that a story, to a large degree, somehow writes itself, when the characters are put in motion. But I imagine a small percentage of
Collins' readers are also thoughtful, methodic, creative writers. And that may
be why so many struggle with the end, one that doesn't give answers to certain questions.
Katniss doesn't care any more. After all she went through, the chance to make a life with
Peeta, whom she actively and rightfully loves, and chooses to love--the other
things are lost to her. That's why she doesn't share more. And Collins
respected that.
But! you cry. That's unentertaining literature; it's lacking
totality! It's awful, I don't like it!
Just remember, dear disappointed Captiol reader, authors do
the writing for you, not the thinking. When written well, like in the Hunger
Games series, an ending will make a good reader recognize that the last page is
the moment to detach oneself from the fiction and thoughtfully resume reality. Good
readers will continue to wonder, maybe have some questions, but they recognize
that good stories end with as many answers as are necessary to the fundamental
causes of the tale--not of the author, but of the characters.
So, before you criticize, be sure you've read closely.
Collins isn't perfect; also, no draft of any novel is ever perfect. There is
always something else to add, to say, to know. But something has to be
published. And Collins gave us an awesome series.
You may have read the Hunger Games series. Now read it
again. And this time see why it isn't awful.
And whatever happens March 23rd, don't judge the books by the movie! Although I certainly hope the movies don't fail when the written story is clearly intended for a viewer audience, we have no power over the imaginative interpretation of words.
Bottom line: just don't be a Capitol viewer. Of anything!
And whatever happens March 23rd, don't judge the books by the movie! Although I certainly hope the movies don't fail when the written story is clearly intended for a viewer audience, we have no power over the imaginative interpretation of words.
Bottom line: just don't be a Capitol viewer. Of anything!
Monday, February 13, 2012
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, January 01, 2012
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.
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.
*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. |
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.
*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.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
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.
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.
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