In commemoration of the changing of my blog title, I shall redesign my layout using the already designed layouts that my Blogger.com friends have supplied. Thank you, thank you.
Also, I shall begin a segment called "Mutterings" that describe to the rest of the world how my mind spends each day. From morning till eve, you shall read my every thought...
Beginning now.
Candy.
Book.
Ouch, my leg hurts.
That's better.
What's for dinner?
Probably more candy.
I guess water will suffice.
Husband! Where are you? Hiding, again? He does that from time to time. Bike Race under the bed. Booger eating on the patio in the snow. Come on. COME ON. (He doesn't actually do that.) (Shout out so he doesn't get mad. Oops.) (Can't offend the husband.) (Love him dearly.)
Okay. This is already getting boring for me. I can only imagine how dull you are now. I mean how bored you are.
I've been doing some thinking about meditating. Meditating about meditating, if you will. And I tried it once. In the bathtub. The goal is to think about one thing, like breathing, or to picture a scene, like the ocean. Focus simply on that one thing. How long can you keep it up? I lasted probably two seconds before I thought about how my knees were getting breezy and what to make for dinner (always food) and what the weather's like and where's my book and grad school and I want to write about something and oh yeah, breathing. Shoot. Seriously, though. Try it. Find a quiet place and meditate. Think about not thinking about anything. Let me know how you do.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Monday, April 28, 2014
How it could have ended.
It started at the very beginning of our third week in our brand new apartment. And I mean brand new. We are the first ones to live here, my new husband and I.
It was his fourth day of his second to last semester at the university. On this day in particular, he only had one class, but it was a three hour class, so I was home by myself. It’s not something I’m used to, the whole being alone thing. I come from a family of eight. That’s right; second of six kids. From the moment I was born to like, last year or something, I didn’t know the meaning of alone. And really, I still don’t. He’s gone for maybe eight hours at a time. Gosh, it sounds pathetic that I snap my head at any slight creak the walls make. And since it’s been so windy, the walls creak a lot. Talk about whiplash.
Anyways, it was a Thursday, and the door got a knock. Brad ordered a bunch of text books, so the mail guy would be coming around a lot. Nothing unusual, but I wasn’t wearing pants, so I ran to the back room to slide into my sweats. I opened the door, and no one was there. No books or anything. Just a big rain puddle and a few helpless pebbles.
Wrong apartment, I guess. Back to the computer. I’ve been working on my brother’s graduation announcement. Cold hands and cold feet from sitting at my cute hutch desk against the exterior wall. It’s seriously freezing. My boogers turned to ice cubes last night. Not really. That’s a total fib. It’s like seventy degrees in here. Balmy.
Another knock on the door, but it was Brad. The wind and rain froze him to the bone. I poked my head into the breezeway (more like wind tunnel) and peeked around at the emptiness. Where did that earlier knock come from?
I locked the door after he stumbled in, dragging his fixie bike. Cocoa? Grilled cheese? I offered. He said yes to some strawberries and carrots.
He settled in and told me about his day. We both fell back into our routines, silently, and half an hour or so later, I heard a scratching at the door. More specifically, a scratching at the lock. A scratching with a key at the lock in the door that belonged to an apartment that both residents were currently occupying. Still silent, I looked at him, and he looked at me. We both looked at the door. It’s just maintenance, right? Coming to fix the oven?
Go check it, I pleaded. I’ve seen too many serial killer TV shows about newlywed students living in nice apartment complexes with absolutely no criminal record or negative stuff of any sort who get off-ed just for existing. They probably want out Target gift cards and unopened serving dishes. Take the money. Take the tv. No, no, no, not the Mac. But, the announcement. I’ve spent so many hours. Just leave the hard drive. Okay, you want that too. Fine. Just not Brad.
After too long, Brad crept to the door and twisted the lock. All within seconds, the lock clicked, the scratching stopped. With one hand on the door, he shot his other hand above the door frame where we store his prized ninja sword atop two nails. I’ll chop their heads off, he always since when we talk about imagined intruders and such. Now is his chance to finally prove his ninjaness. He pulled open the door, keeping the sword hidden.
A burley construction worker type stood in the moonlight. His hand still outstretched, he mumbled something about …must have the wrong apartment.
Wrong number, my butt. If the key doesn’t fit the first time, it probably won’t go in smoothly a second time. Seriously. We tried. You know how many times we tried our keys in the “storage” closet? (Fire hazard? Whatever.) At least twelve. Three times with four sets of keys. Too many. Oh, and add a couple dozen more to count the paper clips and bobby pins.
Did our pierced and tattooed construction friend want to help us count too? I’m sure he’s skilled at breaking into things and watching from the building over for husbands to leave for their nine-to-fivers with their unsuspecting wives at home to do the laundry and get fat.
He probably doesn’t know now, but by next week, he should know Brad’s schedule and mine like he knows his stubby, chipped fingernails. Today was just a test run. How well does this couple guard their lives? Is their front door even locked? What about the back? And the windows? She opens the blinds, but he likes them closed. Who cares? She never does her yoga when he’s home, anyways. Show us what you’ve got, lady. Show us what we’ll soon have.
We went to bed that night unconcerned and stayed unconcerned until the next morning when my sweetheart left for school. He walked out the front door, closed it, and turned around to lock the door. But the key wouldn’t go in the door.
Our friendly construction worker had changed the lock.
The better to catch you with, deary.
It was his fourth day of his second to last semester at the university. On this day in particular, he only had one class, but it was a three hour class, so I was home by myself. It’s not something I’m used to, the whole being alone thing. I come from a family of eight. That’s right; second of six kids. From the moment I was born to like, last year or something, I didn’t know the meaning of alone. And really, I still don’t. He’s gone for maybe eight hours at a time. Gosh, it sounds pathetic that I snap my head at any slight creak the walls make. And since it’s been so windy, the walls creak a lot. Talk about whiplash.
Anyways, it was a Thursday, and the door got a knock. Brad ordered a bunch of text books, so the mail guy would be coming around a lot. Nothing unusual, but I wasn’t wearing pants, so I ran to the back room to slide into my sweats. I opened the door, and no one was there. No books or anything. Just a big rain puddle and a few helpless pebbles.
Wrong apartment, I guess. Back to the computer. I’ve been working on my brother’s graduation announcement. Cold hands and cold feet from sitting at my cute hutch desk against the exterior wall. It’s seriously freezing. My boogers turned to ice cubes last night. Not really. That’s a total fib. It’s like seventy degrees in here. Balmy.
Another knock on the door, but it was Brad. The wind and rain froze him to the bone. I poked my head into the breezeway (more like wind tunnel) and peeked around at the emptiness. Where did that earlier knock come from?
I locked the door after he stumbled in, dragging his fixie bike. Cocoa? Grilled cheese? I offered. He said yes to some strawberries and carrots.
He settled in and told me about his day. We both fell back into our routines, silently, and half an hour or so later, I heard a scratching at the door. More specifically, a scratching at the lock. A scratching with a key at the lock in the door that belonged to an apartment that both residents were currently occupying. Still silent, I looked at him, and he looked at me. We both looked at the door. It’s just maintenance, right? Coming to fix the oven?
Go check it, I pleaded. I’ve seen too many serial killer TV shows about newlywed students living in nice apartment complexes with absolutely no criminal record or negative stuff of any sort who get off-ed just for existing. They probably want out Target gift cards and unopened serving dishes. Take the money. Take the tv. No, no, no, not the Mac. But, the announcement. I’ve spent so many hours. Just leave the hard drive. Okay, you want that too. Fine. Just not Brad.
After too long, Brad crept to the door and twisted the lock. All within seconds, the lock clicked, the scratching stopped. With one hand on the door, he shot his other hand above the door frame where we store his prized ninja sword atop two nails. I’ll chop their heads off, he always since when we talk about imagined intruders and such. Now is his chance to finally prove his ninjaness. He pulled open the door, keeping the sword hidden.
A burley construction worker type stood in the moonlight. His hand still outstretched, he mumbled something about …must have the wrong apartment.
Wrong number, my butt. If the key doesn’t fit the first time, it probably won’t go in smoothly a second time. Seriously. We tried. You know how many times we tried our keys in the “storage” closet? (Fire hazard? Whatever.) At least twelve. Three times with four sets of keys. Too many. Oh, and add a couple dozen more to count the paper clips and bobby pins.
Did our pierced and tattooed construction friend want to help us count too? I’m sure he’s skilled at breaking into things and watching from the building over for husbands to leave for their nine-to-fivers with their unsuspecting wives at home to do the laundry and get fat.
He probably doesn’t know now, but by next week, he should know Brad’s schedule and mine like he knows his stubby, chipped fingernails. Today was just a test run. How well does this couple guard their lives? Is their front door even locked? What about the back? And the windows? She opens the blinds, but he likes them closed. Who cares? She never does her yoga when he’s home, anyways. Show us what you’ve got, lady. Show us what we’ll soon have.
We went to bed that night unconcerned and stayed unconcerned until the next morning when my sweetheart left for school. He walked out the front door, closed it, and turned around to lock the door. But the key wouldn’t go in the door.
Our friendly construction worker had changed the lock.
The better to catch you with, deary.
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Without the light, we will shrivel.
My commentary would only detract from the Spirit that thrives within the words of Sister Chieko Orazaki, who gave this address at BYU-Idaho while she served in the Relief Society Presidency. But despite that, I'll tell you that Jesus Christ is the Savior of the world, and without his love and sacrifice, death would be the end of our adventures. Instead, we get to live again in a world prepared especially for us. Christ's love trumps any other kind of love. And if these next paragraphs don't hug and comfort your every worry, you probably don't have a soul.
"Well, my dear sisters, the gospel is the good news that can free us from guilt. We know that Jesus experienced the totality of mortal existence in Gethsemane. It's our faith that he experienced everything- absolutely everything. Sometimes we don't think through the implications of that belief. We talk in great generalities about the sins of all humankind, about the suffering of the entire human family. But we don't experience pain in generalities. We experience it individually. That means he knows what it felt like when your mother died of cancer- how it was for your mother, how it still is for you. He knows what it felt like to lose the student body election. He knows that moment when the brakes locked and the car started to skid. He experienced the slave ship sailing from Ghana toward Virginia. He experienced the gas chambers at Dachau. He experienced Napalm in Vietnam. He knows about drug addiction and alcoholism.
"Let me go further. There is nothing you have experienced as a woman that he does not also know and recognize. On a profound level, he understands the hunger to hold your baby that sustains you through pregnancy. He understands both the physical pain of giving birth and the immense joy. He knows about PMS and cramps and menopause. He understands about rape and infertility and abortion. His last recorded words to his disciples were, "And, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world." (Matthew 28:20) He understands your mother-pain when your five-year-old leaves for kindergarten, when a bully picks on your fifth-grader, when your daughter calls to say that the new baby has Down syndrome. He knows your mother-rage when a trusted babysitter sexually abuses your two-year-old, when someone gives your thirteen-year-old drugs, when someone seduces your seventeen-year-old. He knows the pain you live with when you come home to a quiet apartment where the only children are visitors, when you hear that your former husband and his new wife were sealed in the temple last week, when your fiftieth wedding anniversary rolls around and your husband has been dead for two years. He knows all that. He's been there. He's been lower than all that. He's not waiting for us to be perfect. Perfect people don't need a Savior. He came to save his people in their imperfections. He is the Lord of the living, and the living make mistakes. He's not embarrassed by us, angry at us, or shocked. He wants us in our brokenness, in our unhappiness, in our guilt and our grief.
"You know that people who live above a certain latitude and experience very long winter nights can become depressed and even suicidal, because something in our bodies requires whole spectrum light for a certain number of hours a day. Our spiritual requirement for light is just as desperate and as deep as our physical need for light. Jesus is the light of the world. We know that this world is a dark place sometimes, but we need not walk in darkness. The people who sit in darkness have seen a great light, and the people who walk in darkness can have a bright companion. We need him, and He is ready to come to us, if we'll open the door and let him."
(Chieko N. Okazaki, Lighten Up, Preface, p. 174)
"Let me go further. There is nothing you have experienced as a woman that he does not also know and recognize. On a profound level, he understands the hunger to hold your baby that sustains you through pregnancy. He understands both the physical pain of giving birth and the immense joy. He knows about PMS and cramps and menopause. He understands about rape and infertility and abortion. His last recorded words to his disciples were, "And, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world." (Matthew 28:20) He understands your mother-pain when your five-year-old leaves for kindergarten, when a bully picks on your fifth-grader, when your daughter calls to say that the new baby has Down syndrome. He knows your mother-rage when a trusted babysitter sexually abuses your two-year-old, when someone gives your thirteen-year-old drugs, when someone seduces your seventeen-year-old. He knows the pain you live with when you come home to a quiet apartment where the only children are visitors, when you hear that your former husband and his new wife were sealed in the temple last week, when your fiftieth wedding anniversary rolls around and your husband has been dead for two years. He knows all that. He's been there. He's been lower than all that. He's not waiting for us to be perfect. Perfect people don't need a Savior. He came to save his people in their imperfections. He is the Lord of the living, and the living make mistakes. He's not embarrassed by us, angry at us, or shocked. He wants us in our brokenness, in our unhappiness, in our guilt and our grief.
"You know that people who live above a certain latitude and experience very long winter nights can become depressed and even suicidal, because something in our bodies requires whole spectrum light for a certain number of hours a day. Our spiritual requirement for light is just as desperate and as deep as our physical need for light. Jesus is the light of the world. We know that this world is a dark place sometimes, but we need not walk in darkness. The people who sit in darkness have seen a great light, and the people who walk in darkness can have a bright companion. We need him, and He is ready to come to us, if we'll open the door and let him."
(Chieko N. Okazaki, Lighten Up, Preface, p. 174)
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