It was gray outside, but then, it usually is in Seattle. We like it that way. The marine layer keeps everybody laid back which is perfect because there is no other acceptable attitude to have when playing urban golf. The four of us couldn't even remember who came up with the idea or who named it but, who cares?
Bobby teed of first, as was his noble right as the oldest of the four of us. His club of choice was usually a six iron, and today was no different. The tennis ball went sailing as Bobby took his quirky, lefty swing. Not a bad shot, the ball bounced down the hill and into the parking lot, where it came to rest against the curb. "Nice", said Adrian. Then Adrian stepped up, threw some grass into the wind for show, and promptly hit his ball off the toe of his five iron. "Oh wow. Man, i am such weak sauce," said Adrian. He followed his ball as it careened off toward some tree or something. We all laughed at him as he tried to keep his ball from getting too far away from him. Danny then took his regular, unnecessarily violent swing that, as usual, got more ground than ball. A big tuft of grass sailed lazily through the air and landed with a rustle as the ball rolled over and then lay there, as if mocking him. If the ball wasn't taking care of the mocking, then Bobby and i were. "Whoa! Easy there big fella, we can't have you making us all look bad like that," i said. "Hey Danny...that was lame, man," laughed Bobby. Danny laughed at himself and then hit again. Then i hit and we moved on, in no particular order. No scorecards, no winner, no losers, no hurry. Just another cool, relaxing afternoon at Decatur Gardens.
We played through the nine holes: the fire hydrant one, the garbage can, the choir room door, the practice soccer goal, and all the other ones till we all finished up. "Nice round, Bobby. You were really on one today," said Danny. "Guess so. It'll work," Bobby responded. "Hey Adrian, you are a testament to all of us, man. If I was as bad as you, i don't think I'd have the guts to play," Danny joked. "Haha, yeah. We can't all be as good as you," said Adrian. With the round over, we all walked lackadaisically back to the car and talked about what we would do the rest of the day. "I'm up for whatever," we all took turns saying. Of course we were, we always were. After a few minutes of thinking about the other things we could or couldn't do, we ended with a general consensus that the best thing to do would be, as it so often was, nothing at all.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Revised: Our Patriotism
Our Patriotism
I walked into our bedroom. I don’t remember where I was coming from or even how old I was at the time. I think I must’ve been in the eighth or ninth grade. My brother and I had the middle room. Mom’s and Dad’s was the next one down the hall to the left and our sister’s was on the other side.
As I walked into our room I saw Jonathan sitting on a chair. I looked at him and smiled. He looked back and barked, “don’t mess with me”. We knew each other well.
I was the older brother and, according to the faulty logic of my prideful and immature teenage mind, a command like that cast at me so blatantly and pithily from the mouth of my younger brother resounded more like an invitation in my ears. I had to mess with him now, if for no other reason, because he had ordered me not to.
Unaware that he was already in a bad mood I (almost routinely) punched him in the arm. From this simple action emerged a raging squall. Jonathan leapt up from the chair and grabbed me. I had been prepared for such a response and grabbed him back. Our hands gripped tightly at each others’ shoulders. We wrestled around some, as was custom under such circumstances.
Then, our normal fraternal bonding moment turned bad. I lost my footing and began to fall backwards. I couldn’t regain it and proceeded to scuttle backwards, quickly shuffling my feet to avoid falling down to the ground. We moved, still locked together. I pulled him with me and he pushed our tumbling masses along. We flew right through the doorway of our room and continued on until we hit the wall opposite our room in the hallway. At this point all motion stopped.
Some of life’s events change you and the way you think. You think you know things, then you learn you were mistaken and must relearn old facts. You are lost and must grasp on to new knowledge. Throughout our youth (up until that day) my brother and I always thought we knew what a wall was. A wall was a standing structure inside or outside a house usually used to separate one thing from other things. Most importantly, however, a wall was always hard. With this superbly inaccurate knowledge lodged in our brains we were both very surprised to find that this particular wall in our house was so very soft and weak. After pulling myself up we both looked back at the wall where we had just crashed and there, laughing back at us, was a hole, roughly the size and shape of my rear end.
We panicked! No more than thirty seconds before we had been locked in a vicious struggle for power, yet now we frantically worked together, searching for some way to save ourselves from a now inevitable doom. He blamed me, I blamed him and when that didn’t seem to work we dropped it and moved on. We brainstormed and searched our room for a solution, some way to hide our deed from the eyes of Mom and Dad, who would be getting home at any moment.
In our room we found a poster of the American flag. Dad had bought it for us and wanted us to hang it up, to be more patriotic. So, that’s exactly what we did. The hole was concealed and the problem was solved. Feelings of relief flowed through us as we complimented each other on a job well done.
For months afterward nothing was said about our patriotic poster on the wall. We had a lot of posters in our room already and Mom and Dad were under the impression that we were trying to be more patriotic (just like they wanted), but had to put this poster in the hallway for the sake of space in our room.
One day, after the event had been long forgotten, Jonathan and I sat innocently in our living room watching TV, not knowing that our past would soon be discovered. Mom, while walking through the hall right in front of our room, tripped and by instinct put her hand onto the wall to stabilize herself. Oh, how great was her surprise when, instead of being able to steady herself from the fall, her waiting hand travelled directly through our patriotism and out the other side. She yelled.
From the other side of the house we heard the cry of our names and instantly knew its cause. Short-lived relief now fled our bones as we awaited a most unpleasant future, for our lie had been discovered.
Little Jace Zachary
Driving home to visit my little nephew, for the first time, seemed like forever. The minutes crept by slowly and I was sure that it was never going to happen. The longer we drove, the farther my destination became. The road stretched longer and longer and I become more and more anxious. The six hour trip had turned into a seven hour trip. If only we hadn’t made so many stops. Finally after much anticipation, my friends and I arrived at my house in New Mexico, The Land of Enchantment. It was dark and a little chilly outside. The night sky was covered with clouds, but the stars were still shining brightly. While mumbling, “I’ll be right back,” I raced up the stairs, leaving my friends behind in the car. The pathway stairs up to the house wasn’t lit and I was careful not to trip. I eagerly rang the door bell several times consecutively. Ring, ring, ring. It must have been annoying to those inside. Peeking through the door window, I saw my parents, with big smiles on their faces. They opened the door and without hesitation, I asked “Where is he?”
“He’s sleeping,” my mother responded. Then, from out of the dark hallway came my sister holding the most precious thing I have ever seen in my life. She gently handed him to me and in the second I made contact with him, my heart melted in to pieces. Everyone standing around me, my sister, my parents, and my friends (who had found their way into the house) all became a blur and soon after disappeared. All sorts of emotions ran through me and I was speechless in that moment.
His tiny body was bundled in a soft blanket that had little yellow ducks on it. His warm body fit perfectly in my arms as he lay there. I leaned in to kiss him and inhaled his baby scent. 
It brought a smile to my face. I gently pressed my lips to his soft check. He moved his head a little, but quickly returned to his peaceful slumber. Then I brought his little head, full of satin soft, light brown hair to mine and swayed him back and forth in my arms whispering, “I love you.”
It’s interesting how a person can love someone so deeply after only being introduced. All was peaceful in those few minutes and life made more sense and had greater meaning that particular day. It was a moment I’ll never forget, the time that I met my dear little, Jace.
I remember, you (revised memory)
I remember, remembering. Is it strange how every memory I have, even years before our paths would cross, somehow reminds me of you?
I remember Harmony; running through fields of gold, gazing up through starry skies into the heavens, wading through cool rushing waters, and picking wild himalaya berries until my hands were stained purple.
I remember light, pouring the throught transparent curtains of the sealing room in the St.George Temple when I was just two, dreaming while the sun was still high in the sky over twenty years later, and gazing out over the wind swept valleys of Zion.
I remember sitting quietly, on the cliffs over hanging the lake at Lehn's escape, mesmerized by the ripples, encumbered by the scent of pine, scheming about destiny, and serenaded by the beckoning mystique of the present unknown.
I remember the surpassing love of God every time it rained, the night I opened the call, the apple orchard behind the Harmony house, and the rush of salty tears for people in Washington I'd never met and suddenly loved.
I remember the toil and labor, the growth, the change, the falls....
I'll forever remember that Sunday afternoon in Sandy, barefoot on the kitchen floor, sweet orange slice kisses, shelling soybeans, sips of crimson raspberry smoothies, and the scent of herb crested salmon.
I'll remember the cool damp grass in the yard, summersaults and cartwheels, picking flowers for Grandma, paper rockets pieced together with thick blue tape, and gazing up into a new evening sky.
It's like remembering a happiness I've never know. Tiny hands, mouths stuffed with greenbeans, a peace, a contentment, two of the most darling little toe headed boys in all the world, the simplistic fortaste of exquisite joy, and you.
I remember Harmony; running through fields of gold, gazing up through starry skies into the heavens, wading through cool rushing waters, and picking wild himalaya berries until my hands were stained purple.
I remember light, pouring the throught transparent curtains of the sealing room in the St.George Temple when I was just two, dreaming while the sun was still high in the sky over twenty years later, and gazing out over the wind swept valleys of Zion.
I remember sitting quietly, on the cliffs over hanging the lake at Lehn's escape, mesmerized by the ripples, encumbered by the scent of pine, scheming about destiny, and serenaded by the beckoning mystique of the present unknown.
I remember the surpassing love of God every time it rained, the night I opened the call, the apple orchard behind the Harmony house, and the rush of salty tears for people in Washington I'd never met and suddenly loved.
I remember the toil and labor, the growth, the change, the falls....
I'll forever remember that Sunday afternoon in Sandy, barefoot on the kitchen floor, sweet orange slice kisses, shelling soybeans, sips of crimson raspberry smoothies, and the scent of herb crested salmon.
I'll remember the cool damp grass in the yard, summersaults and cartwheels, picking flowers for Grandma, paper rockets pieced together with thick blue tape, and gazing up into a new evening sky.
It's like remembering a happiness I've never know. Tiny hands, mouths stuffed with greenbeans, a peace, a contentment, two of the most darling little toe headed boys in all the world, the simplistic fortaste of exquisite joy, and you.
First Time Runner (memory revised)
I was going to be a runner. I wanted it bad. I stretched, long and steady in my living room that still smelled like boxes and carpet cleaner. I felt the muscles soften and pull like hard taffy. There was a pit in my stomach as I switched from the left side to the right. I looked over and saw my brand new husband beside me. He was gracefully running through the same series of stretches I had seen him do countless times. He had been a cross-country and track runner all through high school and his body seemed to do the movements without one hitch of interruption. I hoped that my nerves would help me run better, or at least keep up with him. What I didn't want was another failed attempt.
Bowen was ready to go, looking confident and relaxed. I thought I could still save face by claiming I had to do some more cleaning or neglected homework. I didn't know if I was ready to kill my body for the next half-hour. He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door.
We left. Down the stairs. Clomp... Clomp... Clomp. My breathing quickened as the moon shone on the uphill climb in front of me. One deep breath. I pushed off.
Plop, Plop, Plop when my feet. Swish, Swish, Swish went Bowen's steps on the cement next to me. I quickened my pace to stay with him. I felt like a bouncing sack of potatoes beside a well oiled machine. I thought I was doing okay. Nevermind.... It was just adrenaline. It started to hurt. I kept going. Plop, Plop. Plop.
We'd only been going for three minutes when I started "clomping." I tried to listen to the crickets and cars and get distracted from the aches in my legs. I'd known that I'd had to start somewhere, but this was rough! Clomp Clomp Clomp. "Count the steps...2...4...6...8...not working. Sing a song in my head and run to the beat? That worked. 'Mind over matter, mind over matter.' We're were at ten minutes!" I was half way there and exhausted. I wondered how the people I saw running all over Provo at every waking hour made this look so effortless. I was sweating hard.
Finally we hit a good down hill! We also hit sprinklers, a double bonus! Any distraction was good. My calves were lengthening and I could feel every every part of my soft foot-pads caressing the soles of my shoes and them in turn smacking the pavement. I felt bad for them, but glad that I could stop gasping for air. I only had to make it to the stop light. I could see it. We were at seventeen minutes. My neck throbbed as we hit the last straight away. Patter Patter... I had to shorten my stride again. My legs resisted. My lungs needed more! I went back to gasping. I couldn't believe Bowen was so steady beside me. He had asked me how I was doing more than once on our excursion. I lied because I had to make it without stopping and I knew he'd be easy on me. I managed a few more grunts as he tried to start a conversation. Almost there! Wheeze Wheeze. My legs were about to give. Clomp Clomp. Just a few more strides. PUSH!
I made it! I was so grateful to be done. I was already dreading the next day when we would go again. Cooling down. Breathing hard. So proud. I could do this.
Bowen was ready to go, looking confident and relaxed. I thought I could still save face by claiming I had to do some more cleaning or neglected homework. I didn't know if I was ready to kill my body for the next half-hour. He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door.
We left. Down the stairs. Clomp... Clomp... Clomp. My breathing quickened as the moon shone on the uphill climb in front of me. One deep breath. I pushed off.
Plop, Plop, Plop when my feet. Swish, Swish, Swish went Bowen's steps on the cement next to me. I quickened my pace to stay with him. I felt like a bouncing sack of potatoes beside a well oiled machine. I thought I was doing okay. Nevermind.... It was just adrenaline. It started to hurt. I kept going. Plop, Plop. Plop.
We'd only been going for three minutes when I started "clomping." I tried to listen to the crickets and cars and get distracted from the aches in my legs. I'd known that I'd had to start somewhere, but this was rough! Clomp Clomp Clomp. "Count the steps...2...4...6...8...not working. Sing a song in my head and run to the beat? That worked. 'Mind over matter, mind over matter.' We're were at ten minutes!" I was half way there and exhausted. I wondered how the people I saw running all over Provo at every waking hour made this look so effortless. I was sweating hard.
Finally we hit a good down hill! We also hit sprinklers, a double bonus! Any distraction was good. My calves were lengthening and I could feel every every part of my soft foot-pads caressing the soles of my shoes and them in turn smacking the pavement. I felt bad for them, but glad that I could stop gasping for air. I only had to make it to the stop light. I could see it. We were at seventeen minutes. My neck throbbed as we hit the last straight away. Patter Patter... I had to shorten my stride again. My legs resisted. My lungs needed more! I went back to gasping. I couldn't believe Bowen was so steady beside me. He had asked me how I was doing more than once on our excursion. I lied because I had to make it without stopping and I knew he'd be easy on me. I managed a few more grunts as he tried to start a conversation. Almost there! Wheeze Wheeze. My legs were about to give. Clomp Clomp. Just a few more strides. PUSH!
I made it! I was so grateful to be done. I was already dreading the next day when we would go again. Cooling down. Breathing hard. So proud. I could do this.
Sunset Smiles
"Now!...Go!...Hurry!" Words within my mind push me forward. "No...not here...higher...I must climb higher still...quick before its too late!" Dry, cracking soil crumbles beneath my feet, the sky begins to fade, and local villagers snicker at my haste pace at this hour of the day. "Owe!" I should have changed into covered-toe shoes like I had been advised, "but there was no time!" I justified.
The women of Mwanaminga were watching their husbands and children eat, hoping for a few leftovers to come their way. The children who had finished eating (or who had nothing to eat) were close to home but could be heard playing. Pitter, patter, pitter, patter. I hear the sound of little bare feet close behind me. The patters come closer, followed by giggling, then a few words hard to make out: "What your name?" Giggle...pitter, patter, pitter, patter. I reply with a smile, still trying to move quickly as the small voices behind me attempt to repeat my name and try to keep up. "Where you go?" I look behind to answer and I see a whole trail of little brown eyes moving their naked legs as quickly as possible. Calloused, bare feet, blazing thorns and prickly weeds as if they were nonexistent. I replied with the point of my finger towards the top of the hill. More snickers. I can't help but laugh with them as the race for daylight continues.
"Oh no, I missed it!" I arrived at the top and looked down upon the forming shadows of acatia trees and the deserted Rift Valley. The sound of a bouncing, water-filled jery-can and the master's whip trot away in the distance. Disappointed, I forgot for a moment the giggles surrounding me still. The flash of my camera caught the last of the setting sun. The push of a button confused my little audience for a short period of silence that was cut off by reaching hands and raised voices: "Me! Photo! Yes...yes! Photo!" Little hands and arms and loving embraces smothered my petty trouble.
I didn't get the picture I wanted that evening but I was given a better picture of something more important.
by the
The women of Mwanaminga were watching their husbands and children eat, hoping for a few leftovers to come their way. The children who had finished eating (or who had nothing to eat) were close to home but could be heard playing. Pitter, patter, pitter, patter. I hear the sound of little bare feet close behind me. The patters come closer, followed by giggling, then a few words hard to make out: "What your name?" Giggle...pitter, patter, pitter, patter. I reply with a smile, still trying to move quickly as the small voices behind me attempt to repeat my name and try to keep up. "Where you go?" I look behind to answer and I see a whole trail of little brown eyes moving their naked legs as quickly as possible. Calloused, bare feet, blazing thorns and prickly weeds as if they were nonexistent. I replied with the point of my finger towards the top of the hill. More snickers. I can't help but laugh with them as the race for daylight continues.
"Oh no, I missed it!" I arrived at the top and looked down upon the forming shadows of acatia trees and the deserted Rift Valley. The sound of a bouncing, water-filled jery-can and the master's whip trot away in the distance. Disappointed, I forgot for a moment the giggles surrounding me still. The flash of my camera caught the last of the setting sun. The push of a button confused my little audience for a short period of silence that was cut off by reaching hands and raised voices: "Me! Photo! Yes...yes! Photo!" Little hands and arms and loving embraces smothered my petty trouble.
I didn't get the picture I wanted that evening but I was given a better picture of something more important.
by the
Matters of Great Consequence- REVISED
I remember my first clear view of Camp Cloud Rim. It was the beginning of June. The Lake was still frozen over, and there was a beautiful blanket of white snow covering our little camp, nestled in the top of the mountains at 9200 feet. It took my breath away. There was a canopy of clouds hanging over us, proving the solitude that our little community would come to feel. The cold days had returned for me, but slowly melted away. I remember our first flag ceremony outside. The leaves on the aspens hadn’t yet developed and I could see the still thawing out lake reflecting the shoots of aspen trees on the other side. I could feel God’s reflection in that Lake, waking me to say, “Be your best today.” And I knew God loved me, and everything else was of small matters of consequence.
The lake eventually thawed out later that week. As a waterfront instructor, I had to do demonstrate my ability of a wet-exit from a kayak, and how to tip over a sailboat in the painful 45-degree water. Little bright buds of leaves started to grow on the aspen trees, and I was amazed at how green Utah could be. At flag ceremony one morning I was saddened that my view of the Lake in the morning had become partially blocked by these little buds of leaves.
I was always happy at camp. I contribute most of this fact to the idea of living outside, where I am not blocked from the sun’s healing rays. It was an easy-going lifestyle. We had a set schedule, and there was no need to worry about being able to accomplish everything we needed to accomplish each day. You just did. We lived in a little community of cooking sometimes, sometimes cleaning, other times playing, sometimes teaching, always singing, and always knowing God was nigh, so that my joy was overflowing. It was beautiful. When it was my time off, I wasn’t obligated to think about whether I had enough done that day. My two hours off a day were always well spent however. It was easier to decide that I would first read my scriptures till I felt done, read my other books for however long, and finish it up with working on my laptop to finish my portfolio. Or sometimes I’d go exploring to other lakes, or whittle a stick to nothing with my pocketknife. Or take a shower or head to town with my skateboard.
At camp I was reminded that there is so much more to life than worrying about how much money we’re making, or how terribly we’ve been wronged in the past.
Though I was content at camp, life’s rhythm became incredibly steady until its monotony eventually left me feeling apathetic about halfway through. I started to feel like my potential wasn’t being accomplished in such a perfectly sound community. I became bored in my stalemate. As God’s reflection slowly faded away from my view of the Lake by the new budding leaves on the aspen trees, so did my newfound vigor for constant progression—a utopian tragedy. I was distracted by my previous lifestyle of having lists and lists of things to accomplish each day. I felt that I was no longer moving forward. I prayed to be awakened.
That weekend my car was involved in a hit and run after I had left it parked in front of my cousin’s house. Upon returning to camp from that weekend, I suddenly became bitter at how little this camp lifestyle was paying me on a monetary value. I knew what having to replace a car would mean for me upon my return to the real world. My easy-going attitude quickly faded away completely in a single day. The next day wasn’t much better. I sat down to write about how horrible this criminal was for running away from the damage that he had caused my poor little Saturn. I could imagine his mindset of an innocent accident. How he probably was home with his family, pretending like nothing ever happened. It was while imagining this picture that I was forced to realize that being bitter was only hurting me, and the people around me. Life’s steady rhythm had skipped a beat, but in that realization it turned onto repeat. Later, I sat in my kayak on the Lake that day and admired how the once young leaves that had once annoyed me for blocking my view of the lake in the morning, rustled a great spectrum of green in the wind. They animated the sky, encircling me as I sat on the Lake, waking me to say, “be your best today.” So once again, I found myself surrounded by God’s beauty, and appreciating the simplicity of life.
I envy that lifestyle. It saddens me how specialized we as a society have become. Yes, we have continued to perfect mass production, but it takes meaning out of life. Variety. We are pressured to produce so much, and become so obsessed with how much money we’re making, or how well off we are, that we are blinded to the more important items in life that men have forgotten. I loved reading The Little Prince this summer because it talked about all the things that our society has forgotten that are critical to a meaningful life.
“It is the time you have wasted for your rose, that makes your rose so special.”
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Home Sweet Home (Revised)
Walking up the chipped cement steps, I see the friendly welcome sign on the front door inviting me in. As soon as the door cracks open, the aroma of the buttery homemade rolls seeps into every fiber of my body. My mouth immediately starts to salivate as I make my way towards the soft milling of voices in the distance. As I turn the corner, the heat from the oven hits me like a brick wall. Steam steadily slithers upwards from the simmering concoction on the stove.
On the other side of the scented kitchen, my dad and brothers are busily cutting up ripe, juicy, and colorful fruit. Suddenly, there is a loud crack as my dad forces the two dripping halves of the perfect watermelon apart. Jokingly, my brothers tease each other and laugh enthusiastically as they work side by side.
Mom brilliantly oversees the preparations like a captain aboard his ship; giving loving and experienced orders to all in the kitchen. In the distance, I can hear the faint music from the Disney movie, Aladdin playing in the next room. My youngest brother’s small, whiney voice singing along in youthful exuberance.
Taking in all of the beauty around me, I notice that the colors of the vibrant carrots, the deep broccoli, and the clean cauliflower perfectly off set the bright fruit creating a rainbow of colors. Turning my head, the gleaming sun cast rays of light onto the elegantly set dining table. Cloth napkins are intricately folded and small beads of water cascade down the foggy ice water glasses.
My aching stomach growls impatiently as I yearn to taste the beauties of this kitchen. With his deep loving voice, my dad welcomes all to sit at the table and enjoy the masterpieces that the many helping hands had created. With love, laughter, and delicious food, this truly is Home Sweet Home.
Regional Conference (revised)
It’s bright and sunny and not a cloud is in sight this Regional Conference morning. After several minutes of walking through the busy crowd I take my seat on a hard bench. I glance around the huge room and my eyes don’t know where to begin to focus. People are moving back and forth, up and down the aisles trying to find seats. Several yards away, cameramen are positioning their cameras getting ready to air. The choir takes their seat, holding their music sheets in hand. The girls in the choir are dressed in white shirts and black skirts and the boys in black suits. If you try really hard to listen, you can hear the prelude music in the background, but mostly you just hear the hundreds of voices inside Marriott Center. Then all of a sudden, as if someone turned down the volume, the room is dead silent as the Brethren take their seats. Now you can here the lovely organ music.
As conference progresses all I can concentrate is on how the stiff bench is and how it becomes more and more uncomfortable by the second. I sit there squished. No matter how many times I change my position, nothing works. I can’t concentrate on the speaker because of the distractions all around. There is too much going on to direct my attention at just one thing. I become a little frustrated that I cannot pay attention, mostly because I am not really trying and that’s what truly frustrates me. I know if I truly tried, everything else would fade out and the words would just flow into me.
Boyd K. Packer is speaking now. His kind voice is calming. I look at him and see his white hair and wrinkles and can’t help but think of my Grandpa. Both wise, men of honor, who also have a deep sense of love for others. I remember being by my Grandpa’s bedside before he left. He lay there so delicate and calm. I had a prompting to hug him, say good-bye and tell him that I love him, but I didn’t. I wonder where he is now and I wonder what he is doing. What does he think of me? Is he proud of me? Does he know that I love him or did I miss my opportunity?
Brother Packer tells a joke and the crowd breaks out in laughter. I wasn’t paying attention, obviously. I think to myself, I should be listening, taking in these words of wisdom. I look around and see others not paying attention too. Some are playing with their cell phones, some looking around the huge room, and some rubbing each others backs, yuck! I am astonished at their irreverence, especially those playing with their cell phone. I am no better though. I’m simply not as overt as they are. Nonetheless, we are in the same position.
Brother Packer is now saying something about Indians. I find it funny because sometimes I feel a sense of pride when the topic comes up, but most times I forget that I am Navajo. It’s not until I catch a reflection of myself that I see that I am different from those around me. My skin color is darker, so is my hair. My facial features are not the same as everyone else in the room, either. Its topics of Native Americans that remind me of who I am once more and depending on the context I feel big or small, proud or inadequate.
The closing hymn begins, and both crowd and organ sing triumphantly. It’s as if the room is shaking. After prayer I leave my seat (thank heaven!) and exit the Marriott Center. I leave Regional Conference feeling a little guilty. What did I gain from it? Sure, I heard words and here and there I listened carefully, but did I take them in? Not really. Will I remember them a week from now? Probably not. Shame comes over me with disappointment following it. I think to myself, “Next time, I’ll try harder.”
Monday, September 15, 2008
Gameday (Revised)
Clear blue heavens cover us like a welcoming blanket on an unusually warm bright fall day. A slight breeze gives a small respite to combat the rosy cheeks that seem to appear all too quickly on the face of my date as she stands next to me. Today is not just any other day. Today is Gameday. It is a day of joy and sorrow, ecstasy and pain, and most of all for the victors… pure bliss. I look around to see the colorful pageantry of the moment. My facepaint cracks to the beat of tubas and trombones only a couple of rows to my side. Thousands have gathered dressed for war. Giant colored advertisement boards scream for attention above the navy blue sea of the faithful.
Meanwhile, the ball is kicked high into the air, leaving one to question where it will land, and more importantly - what will happen when the inflated cow-hide does. This uncertainty prompts me to ask myself why I make the effort to come here on Saturdays? I do not hold any loyalties of blood or friendship to the men on the field. Indeed, I’ve only ever met two of them. One from my high school, the other I home-taught freshman year. I rarely even talk to them now. My reasons are deeper than shallow acquaintances. All eleven men in blue on the field carry a matching blue oval with a little ‘Y’ inside of it. The symbol represents my university. It represents the place my parents met so many years ago in a dance class. It represents my decision to come here instead of other schools with more attractive offers. When I think of exactly why I cheer, it comes to validation. Validation of my life, my choices, and my beliefs. I know it sounds silly, but when the football team succeeds, my school succeeds. As a student, this success is ultimately my success because I am a part of the greater whole. I may not be on the field right now (No matter how many times I dreamed of it in my backyard), but that is me on the field. That is me proving that a little school from Utah can compete with the big boys from Los Angeles. It’s me… until we start losing….
The gold and white helmets rush towards each other. The golds prepare to defend while the whites zig and zag as they scramble to flatten that poor soul that seeks to face them. Men and plastic collide and create a mountain of pads and manhood. It reminds me of watching a 7-year old’s soccer game, everybody ends up where the ball is. Where’s the ball? I yell, as I desperately search. My eyes strain as I squint into the sun from my Portal KK seats. A BYU player suddenly jumps to his feet with his arm outstretched toward our endzone. IT’S A FUMBLE! WE GOT IT! WE GOT IT! Riot ensues as the masses cry for more. More effort, more pain, more blood, more sweat, more tears. Bones break, muscles groan, and tendons stretch taught. Bodies are not the only things breaking today, but hearts, dreams, and pride... at least if you’re from UCLA.
The shouts of the masses subside long enough for the trickles of barbecued smoke to seduce my nostrils like the siren’s song. It beckons me closer and my stomach growls in encouragement. My wallet however, responds with a resounding NO! ROAR! What’s that? I turn my head. Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown! The navy sea jumps… and enters heaven for a split second… only to have to return to the mortal realm as the battle continues. Nevertheless, thoughts wander freely. Gone are the apprehension and anxiety that gripped our hearts only hours before. The doubt of the unknown now gone, smiles spread easily on chapped sun-burnt lips as I revel in our success. Today is going to be a great day. Today is Gameday.
Almost Love (revised observation)
I still find it one of the most enchanting places in all the world, although, we will never walk here as you once promised.
Perhaps it is for the best, as only a tender mercy of God could hope to re-create this encompassing serenity,
encapsulate the magical drops of dew that sleep on blades of grass,
and once again unleash the intoxicating scent of the morning after rain.
My soul spills out to you, on paper, like ink from a toppled jar;
You speak kindling words, but then, an approach with such prudent forethought,
like that timid yearling, now quivering on the edge of the thicket,
you choose to sacrifice our potential happiness at the cost of an insurmountable risk.
Small birds sing pensive omens to the silence of this waning summer.
The wind whispers its sweet nothings through the branches of these trees.
The stream, barely flowing, holds to the promise of a better tomorrow,
and I, though mostly content to be alone here with the beauty, hope for a better tomorrow too.
Perhaps it is for the best, as only a tender mercy of God could hope to re-create this encompassing serenity,
encapsulate the magical drops of dew that sleep on blades of grass,
and once again unleash the intoxicating scent of the morning after rain.
My soul spills out to you, on paper, like ink from a toppled jar;
You speak kindling words, but then, an approach with such prudent forethought,
like that timid yearling, now quivering on the edge of the thicket,
you choose to sacrifice our potential happiness at the cost of an insurmountable risk.
Small birds sing pensive omens to the silence of this waning summer.
The wind whispers its sweet nothings through the branches of these trees.
The stream, barely flowing, holds to the promise of a better tomorrow,
and I, though mostly content to be alone here with the beauty, hope for a better tomorrow too.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Iron County Fair! (revised- observation)
Gravel crunches under my feet as the smell of fried food wafts by. It's the last weekend before school starts up again, and we have arrived at the fair! The sun is blisteringly bright as it reflects off of shiny new SUVs and old brown Cadillacs. I'm glad that I remembered my cheap plastic sunglasses. As I put them on I am already feeling younger.
The colorful lights ahead are almost completely washed out by the sun, but still the carnival music seems to call to me. It sounds like one hundred of those old ice cream truck recordings, except all starting and stopping at different times. More of my 21 years seem to sluff off as my heartbeat rises to the sound and my pace quickens.
I see the "Gravitron!" The glittery blue capsule seems to spin and spin forever. It seems smaller than I remember it. Has it changed... or have I? I remember what it was like to feel the G-forces in there and get a little queasy at the thought. A few of those "years" come back to me as I realize I’d be sick if I rode it now! Then I think, "Wait, wasn’t I the one who always swore I’d never give up the carnival rides? I promised myself I would be the Mom that rode with her kids instead of just taking the pictures. Is the thought of a splitting headache going to keep me from my youth?"
I am about to jump in line behind some kids, imagining myself in my old 15-year-old frame, but then I smell the food tents again. That’s the best part of the county fair, the calories! I decide to pretend I have my 15-year-old metabolism back instead of the fearlessness. I wonder what I can get on a stick here…or at least on a cob. The smells of grease, livestock, and sweat all come together here under the big blue summer sky. The sounds and smells were the same when I was young and I have a feeling they will never change. Here anyone can be eternally 15.
All of a sudden I see feet swing over my head, I’m right under the "Tornado!" What I wouldn’t have given five years ago for the money to buy 100 tickets and ride all night with my friends! Or at least to be the girl whose boyfriend wasted all his savings just to knock over enough milk bottles for the biggest teddy bear. The grounds even feel a little dangerous as the sun goes down, and yet the neon lights and cheap prizes fade to the magic and excitement of adolescence.
A shoe whizzes out of the sky and almost gets me right in the head! It could have taken me out and yet all I can do is yield to that 15-year-old girl and join in the laughter.
Cynthia Hallen said...
When I was a teenager, a carnival would come to the parking lot of the local strip mall. My favorite ride was the Tilt-O-Whirl. I love the feeling of centrifugal force. When is the Iron County Fair? August or September? What is the underlying purpose of your piece? What would you like your readers to learn from this pleasant description.
September 12, 2008 9:21 AM
Revision: Next to the Testing Center
As the tree grows and goes through its life certain processes and events inevitably occur within and around it. This is true of all trees. All go through similar processes with similar results, though the details vary from tree to tree.
It drops unneeded branches, needles, pieces of bark that are no longer necessary to the tree. Long greenish white needles extend from the slender bumpy twigs. How does the tree know that they aren’t necessary? Does it?
This coniferous tree’s needles only seem to grow on the outer parts of the branches, not closer to the tree. They face outward, not inward. The tree pushes the needles up and out into the clear afternoon air. How does the tree know to make its needles grow this way? Does it? Is there some sort of intelligence that directs the tree’s growth, or is it mere happenstance?
It also has several branches of varying size. Some grow bigger, thicker, longer, while others stay small or else die and drop off. I sit at the base of the tree as the ticks of the clock push time along towards the eventual beginning of class. I quickly gaze upwards and observe its many strong arms. I survey the ground around me, littered with the weaker ones. They’re prickly things, all dried out and stiff. Deemed unworthy and cast down to the very spots in which they now lay. Motionless. After having been released from the tree they in turn relinquished the life that had once flowed inside them. Was this fall a willing act? How was it decided that they should fall and the rest should stay attached to the tree and grow to be the larger branches I now see?
Some say it’s in the genetic coding of the trees. They do what they do because that’s what their genetic makeup tells them to do. The genes decree that when a part doesn’t fulfill its purpose it should be cut off from the rest of the tree. The genes determine which branches are good enough to grow bigger. The genes dictate which direction the needles grow. Essentially, the tree makes no decisions at all, it simply follows the plan written in its genes. Simple.
But, where did the genes come from? What pattern were they formed after? What is the origin of the simple, yet specific genetic messages? What intelligence possesses the tree?
It drops unneeded branches, needles, pieces of bark that are no longer necessary to the tree. Long greenish white needles extend from the slender bumpy twigs. How does the tree know that they aren’t necessary? Does it?
This coniferous tree’s needles only seem to grow on the outer parts of the branches, not closer to the tree. They face outward, not inward. The tree pushes the needles up and out into the clear afternoon air. How does the tree know to make its needles grow this way? Does it? Is there some sort of intelligence that directs the tree’s growth, or is it mere happenstance?
It also has several branches of varying size. Some grow bigger, thicker, longer, while others stay small or else die and drop off. I sit at the base of the tree as the ticks of the clock push time along towards the eventual beginning of class. I quickly gaze upwards and observe its many strong arms. I survey the ground around me, littered with the weaker ones. They’re prickly things, all dried out and stiff. Deemed unworthy and cast down to the very spots in which they now lay. Motionless. After having been released from the tree they in turn relinquished the life that had once flowed inside them. Was this fall a willing act? How was it decided that they should fall and the rest should stay attached to the tree and grow to be the larger branches I now see?
Some say it’s in the genetic coding of the trees. They do what they do because that’s what their genetic makeup tells them to do. The genes decree that when a part doesn’t fulfill its purpose it should be cut off from the rest of the tree. The genes determine which branches are good enough to grow bigger. The genes dictate which direction the needles grow. Essentially, the tree makes no decisions at all, it simply follows the plan written in its genes. Simple.
But, where did the genes come from? What pattern were they formed after? What is the origin of the simple, yet specific genetic messages? What intelligence possesses the tree?
Thursday, September 11, 2008
The Beginning (revised/continued with comments)
Another stab to the stomach. Comfort made impossible. My teeth cringe, my hands clench the sheets with gripping fists, and my eyelids close tight, fighting back the tears. Sharp, shooting streams of pain moving from within find their way outward through intervals of groans and whimpers.
Cannon-like violence moves from the battlefield of my intestinal track, signaling my feet to quicken their pace, carrying the war from my mattress and pillows, to a filthy, porceline hole. My throat is stripped, my tongue jerked back, and with a forceful push, there comes temporary relief. My left hand quivers to bring the sound of a flush with the push of a shaky finger. The taste and smell of digested garbage turns my head in disgust. I wait.
My stomach rumbles and my posture slumps. My throat swallows hard. "Not again" I tell myself. The troops within my stomach begin their march once more, bombarding my inner walls with acidic grenades and explosives in an attempt to battle the enemy. My legs and arms ache, and I rock to and fro awaiting my fate on the cold tile of the bathroom floor. My right forearm moves carefully across my forehead, transferring beads of perspiration from my brows to the stench-filled, cotton t-shirt I wear. Another erruption interrupts the silence of an empty house, and I weep.
My weight shifts to the right, as my right knee and my right fist collaborate to crawl forward...then I shift left...then right again. At the pace of a turtle I progress, without a shell on my back to hide as I hear voices enter below me. The light shining in through angled window shades reminds me of my light within. My lips utter a few words to my broken heart, and I'm hopeful these words extend upward. In...out...in....out....the air comes less and less easily. My lungs struggle as repeated stabs fill my abdomen with each breath. Pain abounding.
Familiar voices draw near. Tears pour down my cheeks, filling my gapping mouth. My mucus filled nostrils give in to soft tissue, only to be refilled quickly after being relieved. Whimpering becomes whaling, and groaning becomes screaming. Shadows close in, reaching over me and take me away.....
My right ear attempts to focus on the sound of tires on the road beneath, but my heart is pounding louder. At every pebble I flinch, as if each small bump in the road were a boulder. Slowing...slower...stopped. Doors swing open, my eyes squinting to adjust to the florescent light. My stomach now a black hole, empty and miserable. My quivering hands reach the stable hands of another while the arms of those I love support mine. "Aaaaahhhhooooow!" the inner walls of my throat let out a raw cry, as my rear is lowered. I sit in motion, my head pounding, the world rolling by. My feet off the floor, I have no control....left turn...straight....right.
The nerves of those around me can be felt in morning's dark dawn of uncertainty. In...out...in...out. The scent of vomit carries from my tongue to the nose of another whose voice is near. His voice is as a calm, collected, experienced soloist, drowning out the choir of calamity and excitement. I stammer for words to answer his inquiries, my mind racing. The black hole within me now fills with jabbing knives of force and I want to retreat. My eyes squint, my cheeks wet again, my grinding teeth can't dam tears of anguish. The soloist approaches again, then....slow motion...dizzy...away from the world...nothing.
Deep slumber lifts a new day. Two days prior I ventured two-hundred miles by pedal, and today I cannot walk a single step without the help of another. The army of knives are gone, a black hole sewn shut, but the wounds remain. Wounds heal one step at a time....wounds are only the beginning.
Cannon-like violence moves from the battlefield of my intestinal track, signaling my feet to quicken their pace, carrying the war from my mattress and pillows, to a filthy, porceline hole. My throat is stripped, my tongue jerked back, and with a forceful push, there comes temporary relief. My left hand quivers to bring the sound of a flush with the push of a shaky finger. The taste and smell of digested garbage turns my head in disgust. I wait.
My stomach rumbles and my posture slumps. My throat swallows hard. "Not again" I tell myself. The troops within my stomach begin their march once more, bombarding my inner walls with acidic grenades and explosives in an attempt to battle the enemy. My legs and arms ache, and I rock to and fro awaiting my fate on the cold tile of the bathroom floor. My right forearm moves carefully across my forehead, transferring beads of perspiration from my brows to the stench-filled, cotton t-shirt I wear. Another erruption interrupts the silence of an empty house, and I weep.
My weight shifts to the right, as my right knee and my right fist collaborate to crawl forward...then I shift left...then right again. At the pace of a turtle I progress, without a shell on my back to hide as I hear voices enter below me. The light shining in through angled window shades reminds me of my light within. My lips utter a few words to my broken heart, and I'm hopeful these words extend upward. In...out...in....out....the air comes less and less easily. My lungs struggle as repeated stabs fill my abdomen with each breath. Pain abounding.
Familiar voices draw near. Tears pour down my cheeks, filling my gapping mouth. My mucus filled nostrils give in to soft tissue, only to be refilled quickly after being relieved. Whimpering becomes whaling, and groaning becomes screaming. Shadows close in, reaching over me and take me away.....
My right ear attempts to focus on the sound of tires on the road beneath, but my heart is pounding louder. At every pebble I flinch, as if each small bump in the road were a boulder. Slowing...slower...stopped. Doors swing open, my eyes squinting to adjust to the florescent light. My stomach now a black hole, empty and miserable. My quivering hands reach the stable hands of another while the arms of those I love support mine. "Aaaaahhhhooooow!" the inner walls of my throat let out a raw cry, as my rear is lowered. I sit in motion, my head pounding, the world rolling by. My feet off the floor, I have no control....left turn...straight....right.
The nerves of those around me can be felt in morning's dark dawn of uncertainty. In...out...in...out. The scent of vomit carries from my tongue to the nose of another whose voice is near. His voice is as a calm, collected, experienced soloist, drowning out the choir of calamity and excitement. I stammer for words to answer his inquiries, my mind racing. The black hole within me now fills with jabbing knives of force and I want to retreat. My eyes squint, my cheeks wet again, my grinding teeth can't dam tears of anguish. The soloist approaches again, then....slow motion...dizzy...away from the world...nothing.
Deep slumber lifts a new day. Two days prior I ventured two-hundred miles by pedal, and today I cannot walk a single step without the help of another. The army of knives are gone, a black hole sewn shut, but the wounds remain. Wounds heal one step at a time....wounds are only the beginning.
Observations
Joseph Smith, kneeling in prayer, one arm supported by a pine stump, head bowed in supplication—this image represents the search for knowledge and truth better than any other I have seen. His figure strikes one as powerful, confident, strong and resilient, yet his pose shows humility, reverence, meekness and need. Throughout his life, Joseph sought and received instruction from the Lord, among which was often correction. The Lord, chastising one He loved, guided Joseph in his development, taught him to be a servant, and thus created the prophet who could restore and spread the Gospel of Christ.
One day, a woman stopped me, looked at me as if she knew me. "Where have we met?" she asked. I don't know. I get this a lot. Dopplegangers all over, it seems. "Oh, I remember!" she remarks. "I saw you once and thought you would be a great model of Joseph Smith. I'm a painter, and I have wanted to use you in a painting of Joseph Smith." I've heard this before, too. But I'm no Joseph.
Me, standing before a mirror, arms resting at my sides, face focused in searching—the person I see compares himself with those who have come before him and those who stand around him. Though he may look like Joseph, he sees the inadequacies, the deficiencies, the mistakes and the failures. He looks up to Joseph, loves his stories, wishes to be like him. One day, his eyes say, I will stand with Joseph as I stand now, and we will both smile. For now, he will pose, and while he poses, he thinks, esse quam videri. To be rather than to seem.
One day, a woman stopped me, looked at me as if she knew me. "Where have we met?" she asked. I don't know. I get this a lot. Dopplegangers all over, it seems. "Oh, I remember!" she remarks. "I saw you once and thought you would be a great model of Joseph Smith. I'm a painter, and I have wanted to use you in a painting of Joseph Smith." I've heard this before, too. But I'm no Joseph.
Me, standing before a mirror, arms resting at my sides, face focused in searching—the person I see compares himself with those who have come before him and those who stand around him. Though he may look like Joseph, he sees the inadequacies, the deficiencies, the mistakes and the failures. He looks up to Joseph, loves his stories, wishes to be like him. One day, his eyes say, I will stand with Joseph as I stand now, and we will both smile. For now, he will pose, and while he poses, he thinks, esse quam videri. To be rather than to seem.
The BYU Education Exhibit (observation blogg revised)
Light shines through the blinds like trees in the forest. Great trunk like pillars spring up from the floor. Who would have thought that a boy, just 14 years old, could spark the beginning of generations of learning truth and light? The BYU education exhibit portrays the rich history of education throughout LDS history. The exhibit walks anxious visitors through the history of church education from that momentous moment when the Father and the Son came down to instruct the prophet Joseph Smith, through the origins of the institute program, and down into this era when temples dot the earth.
Some features of the exhibit include many trinkets and facsimiles of original documents from early Latter Day Saint history; each with its own story and significance. One item is a pair of very old dancing slippers akin to those that may have been worn by early latter day saints. The shoes were pink and worn; their white souls, paled and worn with time, seemed to be near falling out, yet well preserved for the time they came from. On the wall next to the shoes; a set of small type letters like those that would be used in a printing press in the time of Joseph Smith. Their square shapes and long stems give meaning to the depth of the impact they may have had in their day. Perhaps each strike made, like a hammer, a stitch in the vesture of a new message to the early saints.
The exhibit is also littered with histories of prominent founders and trail blazers on the road of education in the church; one in particular stands out—that of James E. Talmage. Talmage’s exhibit displays a black and white picture of him, younger, perhaps in his 30s, surrounded by beakers and other chemistry things. A beige plaque below the black and white picture tells of the story of his life in education and learning. Below that are two books: one is the Book of Mormon, a replica, the other, black, old and tattered with a brown binding, a first edition copy of Jesus the Christ; a true relic of the past.
As I walk around the last corridor I find myself back in the main room and see the great beams of light pouring through the skylight in the ceiling. I feel a greater sense of understanding and a greater appreciation for the light and knowledge that has flowed throughout the ages. I am grateful that that light continues to flow today.
Things i might have thought... (Revised)
It feels nice to have the sun shine right onto my face. Looking directly at the sun through closed lids allows the sunshine to fill me up from head to toe. Its like drinking something warm after being cold for awhile. The heat doesn't bother me because its softer than if i had my eyes open. I can only feel the sun this way if my eyes are closed. This is the way things should be right now.
Being outside in the sunshine is one of the easiest ways to relax that i know of. This only works, however, when i am still or when i am moving very slowly. I need to unwind from the stress of studying under florescent lights and let the sun fill me up so that there is no room for anything else. Even if i am busy and stressed right before and right after this moment, for now i am not. For now i am as i should be.
I see trees with my eyes but they are more beautiful to me when i let my ears do the work. They rustle and sway with quietness that is not easily noticed. Hearing a tree is hard to do unless you take a moment, like this one, and let yourself do it. It is one of the most soothing, familiar sounds i know, simply because it is one of the most natural.
Feeling sun and hearing trees helps me let go, if even for a moment, of the stressful, constant noise of life. There is always so much to do, but not now. This moment is mine, it can only happen to me, right here, right now. And even after my body leaves, my mind can come back here anytime it wants.
Being outside in the sunshine is one of the easiest ways to relax that i know of. This only works, however, when i am still or when i am moving very slowly. I need to unwind from the stress of studying under florescent lights and let the sun fill me up so that there is no room for anything else. Even if i am busy and stressed right before and right after this moment, for now i am not. For now i am as i should be.
I see trees with my eyes but they are more beautiful to me when i let my ears do the work. They rustle and sway with quietness that is not easily noticed. Hearing a tree is hard to do unless you take a moment, like this one, and let yourself do it. It is one of the most soothing, familiar sounds i know, simply because it is one of the most natural.
Feeling sun and hearing trees helps me let go, if even for a moment, of the stressful, constant noise of life. There is always so much to do, but not now. This moment is mine, it can only happen to me, right here, right now. And even after my body leaves, my mind can come back here anytime it wants.
Campus
I was tired and it was late, well at least too late to just be getting done with what seemed like a very long day of school. My steps were slow and not decided. The pavement at my feet my only marker of where I was headed. A tiny breeze blew and there was hardly a cloud in the sky as the sun made the evening color dance across it. The backpack rubbing against my spine was a constant reminder of the many papers and books that seemed to chain me to a non-social existence.
I was so involved with my cares that I barely noticed the music starting to play. It sounded distant, but the song was easily recognizable. My pace slowed as I came upon some other lingering students. They were motionless. All of them statues face north towards something that I could not see. They reverently had their hands placed on their hearts. I followed their lead, still quite confused as to what we were staring at. As I stood there I watched the students’ faces that were around me. A lot of them looked like they were in a state of deep pondering.
As soon as the sweet melody died down I decide that I must find out what we were all staring at. I rounded the corner of the closet building to find the flag, gently playing with the breeze. It hit me right then and there. The students showed so much respect for our flag and anthem. They stopped and listened. It was almost as if someone at pressed to pause button, But even more so, it impressed me that the students, paused and showed absolute respect. I thought about this as I went on my way, grateful for the chance to come to a place such as this.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Parmesan Chicken (Revised) Blog #1
A cool desert breeze tousles my hair. The night is comfortable, but the metal picnic bench where I sit feels like a refrigerator coil. It has absorbed the wind’s chill. “Fall is coming,” the yellow leaves whisper as they float from the great oak tree. I breathe in deeply; the air smells of pine trees and laundry detergent, the smell of clean. I hear cars, bicycles, and the laughter of wide-eyed teenagers, as I sit in the dark. I find freedom from loneliness, here, in solitude. Tonight isn’t frightening, it’s private, calm. Bowed branches hang over me like a protective umbrella.
And then the boy, carrying a hot metal pan, walks toward me. The parmesan chicken breast, delicate spices gracing the top, is so effortless for him. Perhaps I skipped cooking classes in heaven. I glance up from my scribbles and glimpse soft brown curls and hazel eyes, such kind eyes. I am proud to call him friend, though I can’t help glancing down at my tiny left hand. As I do, the bold print of the Diet Pepsi can accosts my eyes. But even the cold caffeinated can is heartwarming, for he thought to bring it.
The murmur that is his voice rests upon me like a blanket. He laughs softly, and I find joy in his happiness. He doesn’t know the effect his quiet chuckle has on me. Nor does he know that he’s a cellist in the heartstrings section of my symphony. And yet, I sense so much to learn from the people wandering by, cell phones pressed to their ears. Some whisper and some laugh far too loudly. It’s a world outside my own. The crickets won’t quiet. Nor will the car, crying for attention, with yells, honks and music. And I’m here, stuck between desires.
Again, the wind strokes my neck. If only it were him. I glance up again, discreetly. His face is hidden in shadows, the same leaf outlines that dance across the tree trunk. I cannot see him, but I can sense his patience. There’s parmesan in the air again and it’s as though we’re in our own Italy, better, though, because it’s here. I have the desire to stretch my hand over the ridges in the metal picnic table toward him. Those ridges feel like valleys between us. “Wait!” the crickets cry, “Think about it.” I think, and keep my hand still by my side. Again the wind comforts me, and cools my burning spirit. Night deepens and the lights in the windows begin to click off. The mountains become the sky. I notice my cold feet and wish that we two were wrapped in blankets.
The soft click of the Pepsi can brings me back to now. Glancing down I see lovely, defined grass, leaves strewn artistically upon it. He coughs quietly. I look up, knowing he’s trying to be silent, and see small shivers run down his arms. He tries to hold still but his blue collared t-shirt is not warm enough. His cold ears stick out, my own baby elephant. I look, and wonder: What is home?
The moon, a bride, wears a veil tonight. In her soft light I see the purple playground. It’s missing something…where are the children? We who live here are children ourselves, learning love. At this thought I glance up again at my best friend. Those big beautiful eyes are tired. And yet he stays.
Maybe home is when the bench at the playground is no longer empty.
And then the boy, carrying a hot metal pan, walks toward me. The parmesan chicken breast, delicate spices gracing the top, is so effortless for him. Perhaps I skipped cooking classes in heaven. I glance up from my scribbles and glimpse soft brown curls and hazel eyes, such kind eyes. I am proud to call him friend, though I can’t help glancing down at my tiny left hand. As I do, the bold print of the Diet Pepsi can accosts my eyes. But even the cold caffeinated can is heartwarming, for he thought to bring it.
The murmur that is his voice rests upon me like a blanket. He laughs softly, and I find joy in his happiness. He doesn’t know the effect his quiet chuckle has on me. Nor does he know that he’s a cellist in the heartstrings section of my symphony. And yet, I sense so much to learn from the people wandering by, cell phones pressed to their ears. Some whisper and some laugh far too loudly. It’s a world outside my own. The crickets won’t quiet. Nor will the car, crying for attention, with yells, honks and music. And I’m here, stuck between desires.
Again, the wind strokes my neck. If only it were him. I glance up again, discreetly. His face is hidden in shadows, the same leaf outlines that dance across the tree trunk. I cannot see him, but I can sense his patience. There’s parmesan in the air again and it’s as though we’re in our own Italy, better, though, because it’s here. I have the desire to stretch my hand over the ridges in the metal picnic table toward him. Those ridges feel like valleys between us. “Wait!” the crickets cry, “Think about it.” I think, and keep my hand still by my side. Again the wind comforts me, and cools my burning spirit. Night deepens and the lights in the windows begin to click off. The mountains become the sky. I notice my cold feet and wish that we two were wrapped in blankets.
The soft click of the Pepsi can brings me back to now. Glancing down I see lovely, defined grass, leaves strewn artistically upon it. He coughs quietly. I look up, knowing he’s trying to be silent, and see small shivers run down his arms. He tries to hold still but his blue collared t-shirt is not warm enough. His cold ears stick out, my own baby elephant. I look, and wonder: What is home?
The moon, a bride, wears a veil tonight. In her soft light I see the purple playground. It’s missing something…where are the children? We who live here are children ourselves, learning love. At this thought I glance up again at my best friend. Those big beautiful eyes are tired. And yet he stays.
Maybe home is when the bench at the playground is no longer empty.
Home
Serenity
Light crisp air, nourishing flowers, sinuous water, tender life, beating hearts
Captured, poised with such gentle repose
Colors rich, sharp, clear suspend in the glow of dusk
All sense of immediacy abandoned as countless memories permeate the print of this place, this moment
Clouds lift off distant mountains in so soft a grey mist
Brilliant amber glow pulls out of them, reaching, yet unable to spread the expanse of Gods infinite sky
Comfort is rendered through the crumbling pavement beneath my bare feet
Still warm from basking in the sun’s glow
Warn smooth through years of the tread of friendly steps
Beautiful conversations and moments rise, swirl, and settle all around me with the wisps of dust
Escaping from my comfort swing as I sway in hushed creaks
Fountain waters flow full with wishes past
Trickling over the strong, handsome stone and out from my heart into the Heavens
Warmth and support of my loved ones tenderly cradle me here
As I look out at the vast firmament and the amazing, scary, beautiful world in its embrace
Abrupt demands, worries and approaching fears abandoned supplant solely with gratitude and awe
With My Love by my side
Perfect, If but for a moment
This is perfect, this is a gift, this is my moment
This is my home.
Light crisp air, nourishing flowers, sinuous water, tender life, beating hearts
Captured, poised with such gentle repose
Colors rich, sharp, clear suspend in the glow of dusk
All sense of immediacy abandoned as countless memories permeate the print of this place, this moment
Clouds lift off distant mountains in so soft a grey mist
Brilliant amber glow pulls out of them, reaching, yet unable to spread the expanse of Gods infinite sky
Comfort is rendered through the crumbling pavement beneath my bare feet
Still warm from basking in the sun’s glow
Warn smooth through years of the tread of friendly steps
Beautiful conversations and moments rise, swirl, and settle all around me with the wisps of dust
Escaping from my comfort swing as I sway in hushed creaks
Fountain waters flow full with wishes past
Trickling over the strong, handsome stone and out from my heart into the Heavens
Warmth and support of my loved ones tenderly cradle me here
As I look out at the vast firmament and the amazing, scary, beautiful world in its embrace
Abrupt demands, worries and approaching fears abandoned supplant solely with gratitude and awe
With My Love by my side
Perfect, If but for a moment
This is perfect, this is a gift, this is my moment
This is my home.
Karaoke at the entrance of the WSC (Revised, Observation)
It’s 12:30 pm in this wonderful sunny day at Brigham Square and there are a lot of students going around, while I enjoy the live colors of the gardens around me. There are also others students spread all over that area, some are eating sandwiches, some are chatting laying on the grass under a tree, while a crowd of others go in different directions, some to the library, others to the WSC Building, some others to their classes, and the rest who knows where.
Suddenly, the music starts. Big speakers have been set up at the entrance of the Wilkinson Student Center, there are some guys conducting a karaoke activity inviting students to sing their favorite songs. The microphone is available now for those who aspire to be singers for a day.
Life is only a moment, with innumerable faces each one telling a no-spoken story that reflects who they are. Some are smiling faces, some are not. Their eyes pointing in several directions, like if they know where they are going; busy footsteps heading to uncountable directions; real shadows of real people. Tomorrow all of them will be gone, however it looks like we are all enjoying the moment without any care of the world. We all are here in our own BYU little world.
Hold this moment in your mind and also hold it to your heart.
The music starts to sound aloud while a guy singing at the microphone tries to impress with his natural talented voice the girls around. He has been quite successful since he got the cheering and applause of some girls. He smiles very satisfied and bows to his audience. He has had his small moment of glory. The next singer is not that successful since he cannot reach the high notes that his song demands. Anyways, he has not gotten frighten or scare, maybe, deep down in his heart he has not realized he does not know how to sing. But, this is Karaoke; he does not have to be a perfect singer. I try not to pay attention to the sound of his voice; my inner voice guides my mind and eyes to my surroundings, I try to put my mind in the rest of the world around me, but there are moments in which his vocal sounds hurt my ears that it is impossible to ignore him.
What a great relieve! He has now finished his song.
Suddenly another singer starts, his song is “My Way” and I hear some people getting excited as he is doing quite well his song. Well, he is not fantastic, but still sounds very well and I realize that the cheering he is getting is not because of his performance but because some people around him like the song. To me that song is quite depressing and I am amazed that some young people in here really like that song. Well, anyways, there are all kinds of listeners in the Lord’s kingdom, it is ok, I guess.
His song is over and I told myself, now it is my turn, I will go and grab that microphone and show this people what a great singer is. I stand up and walk my first steps, when this time a girl started to sing a song. I still can not see her face from the point where I am, but her voice is incredibly good, her song upbeat. It is like a fresh air to my ears, my faith in mankind is renewed. I can’t help myself but to listen to her, to enjoy her song, to enjoy her voice, to enjoy the moment that saved my soul from hopelessness about the human race. I tell to myself we certainly are not hidden from God’s eyes that He sent someone with real talent to this Mormon little world of Brigham Square. Not only I hear a talented voice, but she knows how to interpret a song, in other words it is not just a beautiful voice but it reflects feelings as well.
When she is done with her song, this time the guys were cheering and applauding, I am sure she will get a lot of dates. It is the magic of music, it is the magic of music and again it is the magic of music. She also had her moment of glory! Suddenly, I look at to my wristwatch, and I am late for my following class. I cannot sing my song at this time, my own moment of glory must be postponed, in the meantime my hidden talent will remained covered from the rest of the world.
Suddenly, the music starts. Big speakers have been set up at the entrance of the Wilkinson Student Center, there are some guys conducting a karaoke activity inviting students to sing their favorite songs. The microphone is available now for those who aspire to be singers for a day.
Life is only a moment, with innumerable faces each one telling a no-spoken story that reflects who they are. Some are smiling faces, some are not. Their eyes pointing in several directions, like if they know where they are going; busy footsteps heading to uncountable directions; real shadows of real people. Tomorrow all of them will be gone, however it looks like we are all enjoying the moment without any care of the world. We all are here in our own BYU little world.
Hold this moment in your mind and also hold it to your heart.
The music starts to sound aloud while a guy singing at the microphone tries to impress with his natural talented voice the girls around. He has been quite successful since he got the cheering and applause of some girls. He smiles very satisfied and bows to his audience. He has had his small moment of glory. The next singer is not that successful since he cannot reach the high notes that his song demands. Anyways, he has not gotten frighten or scare, maybe, deep down in his heart he has not realized he does not know how to sing. But, this is Karaoke; he does not have to be a perfect singer. I try not to pay attention to the sound of his voice; my inner voice guides my mind and eyes to my surroundings, I try to put my mind in the rest of the world around me, but there are moments in which his vocal sounds hurt my ears that it is impossible to ignore him.
What a great relieve! He has now finished his song.
Suddenly another singer starts, his song is “My Way” and I hear some people getting excited as he is doing quite well his song. Well, he is not fantastic, but still sounds very well and I realize that the cheering he is getting is not because of his performance but because some people around him like the song. To me that song is quite depressing and I am amazed that some young people in here really like that song. Well, anyways, there are all kinds of listeners in the Lord’s kingdom, it is ok, I guess.
His song is over and I told myself, now it is my turn, I will go and grab that microphone and show this people what a great singer is. I stand up and walk my first steps, when this time a girl started to sing a song. I still can not see her face from the point where I am, but her voice is incredibly good, her song upbeat. It is like a fresh air to my ears, my faith in mankind is renewed. I can’t help myself but to listen to her, to enjoy her song, to enjoy her voice, to enjoy the moment that saved my soul from hopelessness about the human race. I tell to myself we certainly are not hidden from God’s eyes that He sent someone with real talent to this Mormon little world of Brigham Square. Not only I hear a talented voice, but she knows how to interpret a song, in other words it is not just a beautiful voice but it reflects feelings as well.
When she is done with her song, this time the guys were cheering and applauding, I am sure she will get a lot of dates. It is the magic of music, it is the magic of music and again it is the magic of music. She also had her moment of glory! Suddenly, I look at to my wristwatch, and I am late for my following class. I cannot sing my song at this time, my own moment of glory must be postponed, in the meantime my hidden talent will remained covered from the rest of the world.
Regional Conference
It’s a bright and sunny and not a cloud is in sight this Regional Conference morning. After several minutes of walking through the busy crowd I take my seat on a hard bench. I take a glance around and my eyes don’t know where to begin to focus. People are moving back and forth, up and down the aisles trying to find seats. Several yards away, cameramen are positioning their cameras getting ready to air. The choir takes their seat, holding their music sheets. The girls are dressed in white and the boys in black suits. In the background, if you try really hard to listen, you can hear the prelude music, but mostly you just hear the hundreds of voices inside Marriot Center. Then all of a sudden, as if someone turned down the volume, the room is dead silent, as the Brethern take their seats.
As the conference progresses all I can concentrate is on how the stiff bench is and how it becomes more and more uncomfortable by the second. I sit there squished. No matter how many times I change my position, nothing works. I cannot concentrate on the speaker because of the distractions all around. There is too much to going on to direct my attention on just one thing.
Boyd K. Packer is speaking now. His kind voice is calming. I look at him and see his white hair and wrinkles and can’t help but think of my Grandpa. I wonder where he is and what he is doing. I wonder what he thinks of me. Is he proud of me?
Brother Packer tells a joke and the crowd breaks out in laughter. Obviously I wasn’t paying attention. I think to myself, I should be listening. I look around and see others not paying attention too. Some are playing with their cell phones, some looking around the huge room, and some rubbing each others backs, yuck! Brother Packer is now saying something about Indians. It’s funny because sometimes I feel a sense of pride when the topic comes up, but sometimes I forget that I am Navajo. It’s not until I catch a reflection of myself that I see that I am different…
Home Sweet Home
Walking up the chipped cement steps, I see the friendly welcome sign on the front door inviting me in. As soon as the door cracks open, the aroma of the buttery homemade rolls seeps into every fiber of my body. My mouth immediately starts to salivate as I make my way towards the soft milling of voices in the distance. As I turn the corner, the heat from the oven hits me like a brick wall. Steam steadily slithers upwards from the simmering concoction on the stove.
On the other side of the scented kitchen, my dad and brothers are busily cutting up ripe, juicy, and colorful fruit. Suddenly, there is a loud crack as my dad forces the two dripping halves of the perfect watermelon apart. Jokingly, my brothers tease each other and laugh enthusiastically as they work side by side.
Mom brilliantly oversees the preparations like a captain aboard his ship; giving loving and experienced orders to all in the kitchen. In the distance, I can hear the faint music from the Disney movie, Aladdin playing in the next room. My youngest brother’s small, whiney voice singing along in youthful exuberance.
Taking in all of the beauty around me, I notice the colors of the vibrant carrots, the deep broccoli, and the clean cauliflower perfectly off set the bright fruit creating a rainbow of colors. Turning my head, the gleaming sun cast rays of light onto the elegantly set dining table. Cloth napkins are intricately folded and small beads of water cascade down the foggy ice water glasses.
Although the kitchen is too crowded with helping hands, it is obvious that this family finds extreme joy and satisfaction in working together.
Leaders of the Future (Revised Observation)
Walking through the exhibit I read a quotation that attracts my attention, “How will the saints educate their children?” Beneath this potentially problematic question there hangs a black and white portrait. On the surface, staring blankly and glossy-eyed out of the canvas are twelve young children no older than the age of nine. This photograph intrigues me and so I proceed to take a seat at what looks like a replicated archaic school desk, wooden with a bench made in the shape of a log sliced in half. I am ready to work.
Looking up at the portrait of children, I notice that it resembles a modern day class photograph. It looks exactly how a class photograph should look with regards to their positioning –with the front row sitting on a hard wooden bench, back row standing shoulder to shoulder with the remaining students – but there is one dramatic difference. I do not see children trying to out do each other by giving their biggest smile to make mom proud, or the typical child in the front row with his finger buried deep inside his right nostril. Instead, out of the twelve juvenile and pale faces not a single one has even a hint of a smile upon them. Contrary to a modern school picture, the children in the portrait express the same inanimate, yet humble, long face.
Their eyes are most prominent. Beneath those blank stares you can sense sadness. They tell stories of struggle and hardship that you too can almost feel as you gaze into them. Although such a scene can seem depressing, the knowledge that these children were getting an education helped to raise my spirits as I continued to observe. This location of the exhibit, with its sprinkles of detail -such as the school desk I am still sitting at- gives the room an intensely real and emotional edge.
Despite their fearsome eyes these innocent children look like angels. They appear to be well mannered, loved and cared for by their family. Their clothing is fascinating, an art in itself, and most likely made by the delicate hands of their own mothers since these were times when money was scarce and commerce inconvenient. How privileged are we to drive to a mall and buy our own clothes?
The distance of the children from the camera is ideal and does not retract from the detail of their clothing or their expressions. Each child is wearing a long dark skirt, boys included, which are long enough to reach the tops of their shoes, and a white buttoned collared shirt. Some are also wearing dark collared jackets. Their hair length is short, and, at most, shoulder length for the girls. Setting a standard dress code would have been one of the first steps of educating the children. It shows that, like the church, certain organized rules and regulations must be put in place for order and structure. A uniform reinforces the purpose of going to school, especially then during its early stages, acting as an equalizer. It portrays a gathering of students who are there to learn to the fullest of their potential.
Along either side of this portrait are informative columns about how these children were educated in the mid-nineteenth century. Many could not pay for their education, but would offer food, material goods or labor in exchange. School even took place in tents or around campfires, anywhere that a group of young academics and teachers could gather to pursue their growth in knowledge and moral principles. Education undoubtedly became a new frontier at this time, with Brigham Young advocating the importance of knowledge to the generations that would become leaders of the future.
Today, our society continues to evolve, mostly for the better, and the education of Zion is evolving along side it. Who will be the one to judge my school picture decades from now? What will be their outlook on my educational past that was my present?
Looking up at the portrait of children, I notice that it resembles a modern day class photograph. It looks exactly how a class photograph should look with regards to their positioning –with the front row sitting on a hard wooden bench, back row standing shoulder to shoulder with the remaining students – but there is one dramatic difference. I do not see children trying to out do each other by giving their biggest smile to make mom proud, or the typical child in the front row with his finger buried deep inside his right nostril. Instead, out of the twelve juvenile and pale faces not a single one has even a hint of a smile upon them. Contrary to a modern school picture, the children in the portrait express the same inanimate, yet humble, long face.
Their eyes are most prominent. Beneath those blank stares you can sense sadness. They tell stories of struggle and hardship that you too can almost feel as you gaze into them. Although such a scene can seem depressing, the knowledge that these children were getting an education helped to raise my spirits as I continued to observe. This location of the exhibit, with its sprinkles of detail -such as the school desk I am still sitting at- gives the room an intensely real and emotional edge.
Despite their fearsome eyes these innocent children look like angels. They appear to be well mannered, loved and cared for by their family. Their clothing is fascinating, an art in itself, and most likely made by the delicate hands of their own mothers since these were times when money was scarce and commerce inconvenient. How privileged are we to drive to a mall and buy our own clothes?
The distance of the children from the camera is ideal and does not retract from the detail of their clothing or their expressions. Each child is wearing a long dark skirt, boys included, which are long enough to reach the tops of their shoes, and a white buttoned collared shirt. Some are also wearing dark collared jackets. Their hair length is short, and, at most, shoulder length for the girls. Setting a standard dress code would have been one of the first steps of educating the children. It shows that, like the church, certain organized rules and regulations must be put in place for order and structure. A uniform reinforces the purpose of going to school, especially then during its early stages, acting as an equalizer. It portrays a gathering of students who are there to learn to the fullest of their potential.
Along either side of this portrait are informative columns about how these children were educated in the mid-nineteenth century. Many could not pay for their education, but would offer food, material goods or labor in exchange. School even took place in tents or around campfires, anywhere that a group of young academics and teachers could gather to pursue their growth in knowledge and moral principles. Education undoubtedly became a new frontier at this time, with Brigham Young advocating the importance of knowledge to the generations that would become leaders of the future.
Today, our society continues to evolve, mostly for the better, and the education of Zion is evolving along side it. Who will be the one to judge my school picture decades from now? What will be their outlook on my educational past that was my present?
A 4x4 inch Square
Revision: New Genre (poem), new narrator (from point of view of mantis now), but same subject matter
:
Itches, tingles, on my back
Belly, feet and even two
Antennae sprouting yellowed skin
Stretches tight on pulsing parts
Tightness wraps like snug cocoon
Bringing warmth in autumn wind
But my ranging ocular orbs
Cease to work as scales of skin
Shedding, loosely hang on eyes
Dim the sight of mortal men
And when one day my shell cracks
Dry discomfort sheds from back
Legs, feet, abdomen all free
Head emerges with new sight
New life, new frame to see it is
A blessing from the hand of God
First Version: (Descriptive prose from original observer's point of view)
The second one today--a lifeless preying mantis catches my attention, and I squat like a toddler to peer at it more closely. It has gone to its final repose on its back, with twiggy limbs bent at odd angles. These limbs seem to form a protective arch above the hollowed belly below them. But all the inner clockworkings of this little fellow are now either dry and rattling or sucked gone. His skin surface, a simple shell jacket for now-empty innards, reflects a light amber hue. A tawny autumn leaf resting near his head seems painted from the same palette. My eyes blink appreciatively at nature's color coordination.
A sidewalk forms his backdrop, and I note how the pale gray cement accessorizes itself with a curving crack, forming dark gray angles to cross beneath the center of the mantis abdomen. I shiver when a breeze makes my cheek feel cool. This moving air holds strong enough force to transport the mantis. I watch as the breeze moves him about half an inch forward, sliding his dry outer membrane which makes scratching sounds as it stirs. His head has now slid to touch a portion of the sidewalk marred by a purple stain. The blot has a circular shape which, when positioned behind the mantis head, resembles a two-dimensional halo, like the ones behind faces of saints in medieval tapestries. But I have never been one to promote insects to sainthood, and the head seems even less regal now that I notice the antenna springing from it. The little feelers have become attached to the crusty yellow leaf somehow; this remnant of tree and bit of insect cling together in their mutually dehydrated state. I have realized now he is not dead, but has just shed his exoskeleton.
:Itches, tingles, on my back
Belly, feet and even two
Antennae sprouting yellowed skin
Stretches tight on pulsing parts
Tightness wraps like snug cocoon
Bringing warmth in autumn wind
But my ranging ocular orbs
Cease to work as scales of skin
Shedding, loosely hang on eyes
Dim the sight of mortal men
And when one day my shell cracks
Dry discomfort sheds from back
Legs, feet, abdomen all free
Head emerges with new sight
New life, new frame to see it is
A blessing from the hand of God
First Version: (Descriptive prose from original observer's point of view)
The second one today--a lifeless preying mantis catches my attention, and I squat like a toddler to peer at it more closely. It has gone to its final repose on its back, with twiggy limbs bent at odd angles. These limbs seem to form a protective arch above the hollowed belly below them. But all the inner clockworkings of this little fellow are now either dry and rattling or sucked gone. His skin surface, a simple shell jacket for now-empty innards, reflects a light amber hue. A tawny autumn leaf resting near his head seems painted from the same palette. My eyes blink appreciatively at nature's color coordination.
A sidewalk forms his backdrop, and I note how the pale gray cement accessorizes itself with a curving crack, forming dark gray angles to cross beneath the center of the mantis abdomen. I shiver when a breeze makes my cheek feel cool. This moving air holds strong enough force to transport the mantis. I watch as the breeze moves him about half an inch forward, sliding his dry outer membrane which makes scratching sounds as it stirs. His head has now slid to touch a portion of the sidewalk marred by a purple stain. The blot has a circular shape which, when positioned behind the mantis head, resembles a two-dimensional halo, like the ones behind faces of saints in medieval tapestries. But I have never been one to promote insects to sainthood, and the head seems even less regal now that I notice the antenna springing from it. The little feelers have become attached to the crusty yellow leaf somehow; this remnant of tree and bit of insect cling together in their mutually dehydrated state. I have realized now he is not dead, but has just shed his exoskeleton.
In my own little corner... (Revised)
As I stepped off the staircase onto the fourth floor of the Harold B. Lee Library, I stepped into my comfort zone. I took a right, walked over to the Asian Collection, and took a seat at an empty table. The area was fairly deserted, which I anticipated and appreciated. The large, fake plant to my right had been rotated slightly, and I checked (as I always do) to make sure the green leaves were not real.
I took a glance around and noticed the many conveniences located so near to my designated study spot. To my left there was a copy machine, a trash can, and a restroom. A look towards the right brought my attention to another trash can, tables of varying shapes and sizes, and windows located through the open offices. Just ahead of me was a clock, and not too far from that was a staircase. The LRC was just beyond the staircase, had I any need of a computer. As far as amenities go, I could not think of anything else to desire.
With the thought of studying as a motive for looking for a distraction, I took note of the various paintings in the general vicinity. They were located close enough to see but not too near to be a significant distraction. The noise around me was nothing more than an occasional whisper; the majority of the sound came from the whirring copy machine and the rustling of papers.
A wave of student passing by reminded me of the physics book resting on my lap. The office doors lining the wall reminded me that much more goes on in the library than my physics homework. The bookshelves of foreign encyclopedias reminded me of how much knowledge is contained in that building, my Hogwarts Castle. This visit was reminiscent of my first expedition to this library - I still haven’t lost that sense of wonder and awe for the never-ending staircases, passageways, and new discoveries around every corner.
I took a glance around and noticed the many conveniences located so near to my designated study spot. To my left there was a copy machine, a trash can, and a restroom. A look towards the right brought my attention to another trash can, tables of varying shapes and sizes, and windows located through the open offices. Just ahead of me was a clock, and not too far from that was a staircase. The LRC was just beyond the staircase, had I any need of a computer. As far as amenities go, I could not think of anything else to desire.
With the thought of studying as a motive for looking for a distraction, I took note of the various paintings in the general vicinity. They were located close enough to see but not too near to be a significant distraction. The noise around me was nothing more than an occasional whisper; the majority of the sound came from the whirring copy machine and the rustling of papers.
A wave of student passing by reminded me of the physics book resting on my lap. The office doors lining the wall reminded me that much more goes on in the library than my physics homework. The bookshelves of foreign encyclopedias reminded me of how much knowledge is contained in that building, my Hogwarts Castle. This visit was reminiscent of my first expedition to this library - I still haven’t lost that sense of wonder and awe for the never-ending staircases, passageways, and new discoveries around every corner.
The Hospital (Revised Observation)
When I walk into the Anesthesia workroom I immediately feel a sense of adventure and purpose. The shining white floors and the pungent aroma of sanitation fill me with a reverence for this place of healing. The phone's incessant ringing and the ceaseless intercom announcements of, "HCA's to room five", and "Turnover in room nine" are constant reminders of the urgent ambiance only found in a hospital. People will be coming here to the third floor and their lives will hang by a meticulous balance as doctors go to work. Two men in scrubs and white lab coats walk through the room on their way no doubt to some impending task only they can accomplish, and my thoughts begin to wander. What kind of lives are their patients living? What kind of people are they? If somehow these doctors were to err in their judgment, who would miss them? Whom would they be leaving behind?
I scan the walls filled with medical supplies. Shelves upon shelves filled with injection needles, syringes, airway tubes, and gauze pads pass underneath my glance. As I go to work collecting the needed materials, I consider my part in this balance. True, I may play a very limited role in the life and death struggle that takes place here on this floor, but that is only for now. For now all my concern is in the workroom. I stock the carts with what the trained professionals will use to preserve the quality and quantity of life. My role is small now, but someday it will be great. Someday I will be the one to preserve life, by God’s will of course. Without Him I can do nothing, but with Him who can tell the potential I might have in people’s lives? What kinds of lives will my patients have? If I err in my judgment, whom will they be leaving behind? Do I truly want to have these unanswered questions with me every hour of everyday? I consider this question as I finish my work on one cart and set to work on the next. In a word, yes. I feel it is my duty and destiny to do so, and I must live to meet it. A smile spreads over my face as I consider what the future holds. Many years still remain before it will be my responsibility, but for now, I will continue to play my small part.
I scan the walls filled with medical supplies. Shelves upon shelves filled with injection needles, syringes, airway tubes, and gauze pads pass underneath my glance. As I go to work collecting the needed materials, I consider my part in this balance. True, I may play a very limited role in the life and death struggle that takes place here on this floor, but that is only for now. For now all my concern is in the workroom. I stock the carts with what the trained professionals will use to preserve the quality and quantity of life. My role is small now, but someday it will be great. Someday I will be the one to preserve life, by God’s will of course. Without Him I can do nothing, but with Him who can tell the potential I might have in people’s lives? What kinds of lives will my patients have? If I err in my judgment, whom will they be leaving behind? Do I truly want to have these unanswered questions with me every hour of everyday? I consider this question as I finish my work on one cart and set to work on the next. In a word, yes. I feel it is my duty and destiny to do so, and I must live to meet it. A smile spreads over my face as I consider what the future holds. Many years still remain before it will be my responsibility, but for now, I will continue to play my small part.
Roman Gardens Observation
Roman Gardens Observation
I used to peer out of this window against my back, as I observed the easygoing atmosphere of Roman Gardens Apartments. The landscape hasn’t changed much but I think that’s what makes this place so uniquely perfect. I first moved here last May of 2007. One might suppose you could call it a risk I took, but I think the risk wasn’t that hard to take—to be in oblivion, is to have more possibilities—of which I’ve found myself in a beautiful accident.
In the near distance I can hear John Buck cheering along with others in an apartment. The four walls of apartments that completely enclose the courtyard allow sound to be captured and carried to you regardless of which apartment is yours.
From here, the second floor of the east wall, I can see my new apartment. It lies directly above the South entrance, also on the second floor. In front of it is the set of stairs that lead from the ground to the second and third floors. I did not spend the last school year here; it feels good to be back. I suppose I planned this last school year too well out. There was no room for accidents. Again with the cheering.
This summer I bought two orange director chairs. One of which I am sitting on now. The other is sitting by our front door along with my green camping chair. From the balcony above hang three matching twisted pieces of plastic that spin slowly in the breeze, mesmerizing the eye. Near by from the courtyard below, grows a tree that bears green leaves and little orange berries, all in clusters, complimenting my patio furniture quite conveniently. Our neighbor Brynn is sitting in the other director’s chair by my apartment’s door. People gather there. It is a point of interest. One cannot pass the beauty of the orange chair and not have the desire to sit there. It is a point of interest. It was a good buy. It was a beautiful accident. The four enclosing walls of our fortress force us all to exit our apartment into the courtyard, and out through only either the north entrance, or the south entrance. My apartment lies above the South entrance—it is hard to miss quite conveniently.
The guys cheer again.
The people here are almost all new than my experience here last summer. I do not recognize the girls chatting and gossiping in the pool below me. The water reflects and bends the sun’s warm rays, reflecting them to shine on the ceiling above me. That’s something I miss about the position of my old apartment, the pool’s reflection onto my front room’s ceiling. The clouds are streaked against the sky. The boys are cheering again. There’s a water noodle in the hot tub. Massive cheering. I wonder if BYU just won. People here are so friendly. I do so like it so very much. I was surprised to find how many people were willing to help me move in last summer. My mother and I pulled up, and I got out of the car, looked up at the large white complex, and said, “Well here I am!” And before I even had time to pick up my first box to move in to my new apartment, a whole of pack of strangers were helping me get on my way to my new home.
And hey, some girls just offered me Ice-cream. Again with the massive cheering. Dang, I should watch that. Craig’s inviting people to play soccer. Music just turned on through the open door of my old apartment beside me. It doesn’t look the same as when I lived there. But that is expected with each new tenant, as they make themselves a home.
I think it’s all beautiful. This place. When I was younger I used to dream about living in a huge house with all of my most favorite people. This place I call home, is a perfect, beautiful accident.
Robertas Secret Garden (Revised)
As I sit on a rustic bench in this secret garden I take in my surroundings. This particular parcel of paradise was created fifty years ago by the late Mark Anderson. His widow maintains the gardens beauty, such as the beautiful fish pond. I love the fish pond. As dusk approaches I hear crickets chirping, singing their song. A blue jay is looking for food in the peach tree; but he can’t find it because we’ve picked it all. I smell tomato plant odor on my hands, because I just picked a bunch for my friend. There is a colony of ants crawling all over this rock next to the waters edge. There are worker ants and ants with wings. I see a piece of string on the cinder block wall that looks like silly string but it’s not. The holly tree on my right has unique shiny plastic looking leaves. There is a lone lily pad flower in half bloom trying to make his way into maturity on the south end of the pond. I hear the rhythmic ripples of the water as a gold fish breaches the water going for a bug. I also see the silhouette of the trees, against an early night sky. Directly in front of me there is a frog statue, and he’s looking back at me. He seems longing to be in the water. He appears to be mocking me to jump into the pond. There is also a statue of a boy caressing his dog. It makes me miss my dog Bandit. It feels so nice out here. Perfect temperature. I love the shadows that the floodlights create; casting interesting shapes onto the freshly cut grass. There is a lady bug cruising along the holly tree, weaving between the frayed bark. I see all sorts of flowers whose colors are faded and overtaken by nights encroaching darkness. I smell freshness. Its not quite the mountain after rain freshness, but it smells good with all the trees and flowers. Here I find sanctuary and repose. The closest I can get to the glorious gardens of Gods' mountain temples. I see a hanging bird house that reminds me of Winnie the Pooh’s honey jar. However, it also reminds me of the living scriptures episode when the Jardadites catch fish to take to the Promised Land and the put them in some clay jars. Well, I suppose they’re only caricatures. As I look into the water I see the reflection of the overhanging trees. It is beautiful. It’s like an old black and white picture. You can either look at the lilies and the pads or the underlying reflection of the trees as they appear to oscillate back and forth in congruence with the waters gentle movement. Reflection must not needs be always done in vaulted hall, most often it is done where the autumn leaves can fall.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Memorial Service for Mary Ellen Ryder
6 September 2008 * Boise State University Student Union Building
When I arrived at the Student Union, I saw signs that directed people upstairs for Mary Ellen’s memorial. A large meeting room was arranged to accommodate several hundred people. Greeters at a welcome table gave us a program, a copy of the obituary text, and the lyrics to the “Circle Game” by Joni Mitchell. On the right hand of the room, there was a table with pens and cards to write down memories of Mary Ellen for the family. There was a good-sized panel with various photographs, from childhood to the present, including a summer 2005 picture of Mary Ellen and her husband Peter eating a dessert together in the Lakes District. Especially lovely was a 1983 wedding photograph of Mary Ellen playing a love song on her guitar for Peter, with a long white renaissance dress and a garland of white flowers in her hair.
Each corner in the front of the room had a large video screen, showing photos and descriptors of Mary Ellen, as prepared by some of her students. The descriptors included: CHEERLEADER, EFFERVESCENT, COLLEAGUE, DARK CHOCOLATE, STRAIGHT UP ADVICE, DARE, COURAGEOUS, MEMORABLE, TEACHER, IMPRESSIVE, ACCEPTING, OPEN, SPIRITUAL, ARTIST, GUITARIST, JUST AMAZING, BELIEVED IN ME, EYE OPENING, EMPOWERING, BROUGHT OUT THE BEST IN OTHERS, LIFE CHANGING RELATIONSHIP, FRIEND. The background music for the DVD reminded me of songs from the National Trust CD’s that I heard in the Lake District. When it was time to begin, a former student dressed in full kilt gear called the meeting to order by playing “Highland Cathedral” on the bagpipes. He had tried to call the family to volunteer his services, but unable to reach them, he just showed up, ready to do his part.
Previous to my July 2008 departure for the Poetics & Linguistics Association conference (PALA) in Sheffield, England, a renaissance madrigal had come into my mind. I found myself singing “April Is in My Mistress Face,” a Thomas Morley song from a music appreciation course that I studied years before in college. After my arrival in Sheffield, I decided to visit the conference room scheduled for my presentation that Friday afternoon, but the room was not empty. My friend Beatrix was practicing “April Is in My Mistress Face” with PALA members Lesley, Michael, and Mary Ellen. Mary Ellen was singing the tenor part so that Beatrix could sing the soprano part. They were preparing for an after-dinner performance at the PALA banquet on Saturday night. The blend of voices was pleasant, and the group members kindly allowed me to practice with them that day and on the following day, even though I would not be attending the banquet. I am very grateful that they let me join their song; otherwise, I would never have gotten to know Mary Ellen.
On Tuesday, 26 August, PALA President Lesley Jeffries sent an email, with details of Mary Ellen’s tragic death the night before. On Monday evening, 25 August 2008, Mary Ellen lost her life when a wildfire consumed five homes in her southeast Boise neighborhood. Mary Ellen’s husband Peter survived the fire but suffered the loss of his beloved spouse and all of their earthly belongings. Family, friends, and colleagues were stunned with shock and grief. I wrote a mimesis of the “April” madrigal to express condolences:
BOISE (To Mary Ellen Ryder, 1952-2008)
April was in our singer’s word,
And Júly in her voice we heard.
Now in August, we remember,
And in our heart, blue September.
I walked from the hotel to campus in the bright Saturday morning sunlight. I walked by the lovely paths along the Boise River, past the football stadium, to the BSU Student Union. I did not know who anyone was when I arrived at 9:45 a.m. in the room designated for the memorial. I found a seat on the back row, where I would be able to easily observe and record the details of the service. Then I got up and introduced myself to Jennie Hansen, who was sitting on the front row with her husband, her father, and other close friends of the Ryder family. Jennie is now teaching several of Mary Ellen’s classes. She told how Mary Ellen had mentored and helped her find her career in language studies. She would like to find a Ph.D. program, perhaps one in England, to complete her credentials. During the service, her husband John played and sang “The Riddle” by Robert Hunter and Jerry Garcia. Her father Gary Gilman welcomed me as a fellow graduate of Brigham Young University.
Then Christine Hathwell introduced herself and Mary Ellen’s husband Peter. Peter graciously remembered seeing me at the 2005 PALA conference in Huddersfield, England, maybe because I performed “The Lion and Albert” at that banquet that year. Christine was the first speaker for the memorial after the Invocation by the Reverend Sandi McFadden and the welcome by BSU English Department Chair Michelle Payne. Christine spoke of the many years that she and Mary Ellen had been colleagues and office mates at BSU. She informed us about Mary Ellen’s courage as a two-time survivor of breast cancer. She told us about the recent diagnosis of cancer in Mary Ellen’s tear duct. She read Mary Ellen’s last email to her sister Elizabeth: “My dearest sister. Let us be as hopeful as we can . . . We are blessed that there is no unfinished business between us.”
How brave people are in the face of unspeakable loss. The generosity and vibrancy of Mary Ellen’s spirit seemed to cushion and comfort all of us present.
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