Solstice

Like I said, Thursday I went on a date. With Ted. This was the reschedule we had planned the day before because he was going to be out of town on the day he originally schedule to go out with me. We ended up seeing When Did You Last See Your Father? It's PG-13. It's a strong PG-13. It's a powerful movie, based on a memoir. The editing was seamless. The exposition, the story, the character development, all building and leading up to an incredibly emotional scene where if I weren't on a date, I would have been ugly-crying: face shining with tears; mouth in a contorted frown; snot everywhere. The acting and the swelling, manipulative music and my heart being completely invested in the characters are the perfect formula for weeping. Plus, I could relate to the characters. But, I kept my composure and managed to keep most of my tears inside my eyeballs.

Ted and I spent most of our conversation after the movie about our thoughts of the movie and how we related to the movie. We ended up sharing a lot of personal information that I usually don't reveal on a first date. I've known Ted a few years now, but I've not had the opportunity to open up to people about myself; I normally don't volunteer deeply personal information relating to my family, except of course to the Internet, where most of the people who read this know me well and I'm comfortable enough around you. And for the others whom I don't know, I figure what I share they can learn from somehow. 

Anyway, it was great getting to know Ted better. We're the same age, he's well-spoken and well-traveled. He's a good conversationalist and he's cultured. He works in acoustics, so he has a great ear. He's also extremely into family history and is preparing a presentation for an upcoming family reunion.

We talked about our fathers. On Friday on my way home from work, my dad called and left a message. Today at church we had a Fathers' Day program and the movie about the dad and talking with Ted about our dads and my dad calling got me thinking a whole lot more about my dad.

So I called my dad today, and we talked for a while. We're fully capable of having a conversation, where he talks, I comment, he talks some more, and I comment. Sometimes he asks questions, and I answer them and then he'll talk some more, and I'll comment, but sometimes I'll actually interject something interesting, then he'll comment then he'll continue talking about something else, then I'll comment. I don't mind commenting. He doesn't get to talk to very many different people, and I'm happy to listen. Once upon a time I wasn't so willing.

A member of the bishopric extended a calling to me today. I'm going to be a co-teacher for the 7-year olds. I spoke with the other teacher today, and she said they're a group of really smart kids. I'm very excited to be teaching them! Seems I can't get away from the teaching. 

Speaking of teaching, we talked about gifts of the Spirit today in Relief Society. This is a very apparent gift that I've been given. Not boasting here, just a talent I know I have. It's a gift I have to be careful with and use only with lots of faith and prayer. It's something I can't do for recognition or praise. In the Book of Mormon, some of the gifts of the spirit are listed in Moroni 10; Doctrine and Covenants: Section 46; New Testament: 1 Corinthians 12.

Happy Fathers' day to all you dads and future dads out there. I know you, and I know you're doing an awesome job.

I was going to post a photo of some beautiful avocados cut in half and ready to go in an amazing guacamole, all laid out on sheets under the shade in Central Park, but I thought this picture was a little more interesting. It was a total accident including the megahunk in this photo of my friend Michelle Buteau. This picture is actually a part of a sequence that shows her playing some mean frisbee. As you can see here, she apparently saw me pointing the camera at her, so she mugged, but what she didn't see was Mr. Muscles behind her. While the series of eight photos could be entitled "Michelle with the Frisbee," it could also be called "A De-shirted Walk in the Park" or "The Need for Clothes" or "How Good Are You at Purging Unpure Thoughts from Your Mind?" Ahem. Because seriously? Seriously. Click on the photo for more shenanigans. Rated PG.

The last of Michelle's annual summer picnics I attended was four years ago. I've missed a lot of her gigs, but I have caught her auditions on "Last Comic Standing." I met some really great and funny people at the picnic. It's nice to meet new people. It's insightful to see where they are in their lives, what they strive for, the relationships they maintain, their view of the world. I got reacquainted with a guy named Mark, from four years ago. I met his friend Sacheen ('sa-SHEEN'). I met a Vicki (who made the guacamole), and Blanca, and Nick (who apparently Alison-from-MTV's boyfriend) and Kelly (whose husband was at home installing the AC) and Wilson and a few others whose names I didn't catch. When the picnic first started, as someone new came to the blankets, we'd introduce ourselves. Three or four hours into it, we just didn't bother.

Kristin Plater was at the picnic, too. I happened to be wearing my "Good grammar costs nothing" t-shirt, and she totally called me out on her email I posted where I pointed out the misused apostrophes. I felt bad, but the thing is, my intention was to emphasize her praise AND my anal-retentiveness - because it was about my noticing too much, and I wouldn't have posted her email if I thought she'd be truly offended. But she was, and just for the record, my grammar isn't perfect, even though I'm passionate about it. So, I'm sorry for being such a punk.

It was HOT yesterday, and it was HUMID. Normal humans do not thrive in those conditions. Michelle claimed a spot in the shade at 1:15. I arrived at 1:45, and others soon followed. That's where a bunch of us vegetated and ate and chatted for nearly the whole afternoon. And played frisbee, and pointed out the hubba-hubba shirtless, and winced at the thong bikinis, and watched the Capoeira demonstration. Michelle also got to play with a stranger's baby, thereby making a new friend. She's so good at that. I met her through Kristin Plater, but then how we managed to stay friends is kind of a mystery, but I'm grateful, all the same.

Later that evening, I attended a birthday party downtown. It was on the roof of a building in the Financial District, but right when we arrived, I saw some lightning flash in some clouds pretty far away, and when I stepped onto the roof, big, fatty, funky raindrops started falling at an angle from the sky or wherever, and we had to take the party to a club room inside. Turned out it was one of those freak rainstorms that lasted maybe ten minutes. The party was okay, but I found myself comparing my comfort talking to the picnic folks to the weirdness of the birthday party. Part of it was everyone already knowing each other at the birthday party. Part of it was my feeling paleozoic around the partygoers. It was fine.

I enjoyed church today. I attended Becky's ward, and the meetings were quite good. I was actually rather impressed. This is where you notice that I won't dedicate numerous paragraphs to the three hours I spent at church or the quasi-crush I have on someone's cousin who's only visiting for a week. But I will say the vibes in the singles and married wards are quite different. Wow.

The baby was actually quite cute and would have been so, so endearing in another setting. Sure, to disturb is to unsettle or to upset. But this baby wasn't playing with fire in the aisle or trying to start a baby gang war or reciting Hillary Clinton's concession speech. This baby was squirmy and squealy and if her noises were in tempo with and key of the music, it would have been fine. Maybe the annoyed lady meant to tell the mother her baby was disruptive. Or distracting.

Here is the dichotomy with "Mormon Night" at Carnegie Hall. Families with babies attending cultural events. Someone was bound not to be able to find a babysitter, so that someone sat with her child in her lap, and this child could not keep quiet during the entire playing of Aaron Copland's Appalachian Spring. Mother picked up her child and left after annoyed lady confronted her about being "disturbing."

There is not a single bad seat in that Carnegie Hall. (Except if you're near a loud and wiggly baby.) That means you can hear every single note, no matter where you sit. Props to the acoustics people. Bravi. Woo! But that also means you can hear every single bad note. You can hear when a section is slightly off beat, you can hear the slightest anything. BYU's chamber orchestra did a fabulous job, and I enjoyed the experience, so I was able to ignore most of the blips and whatever else erroneous bounced off those perfectly contoured walls into my ears. My ears and mind have been so deprived of classical music, they couldn't help but soak up everything. When they performed Appalachian Spring, it occurred to me that I own a recording of that piece, and THAT is what should have been playing while we drove through Shenandoah National Park. I mean Kenny G is okay, but I must say a very distant second in terms of appropriate driving music. Sorry. 

***
Yesterday, in the middle of the day, my neck started hurting. I mean, really hurting. I can hardly turn my head without feeling a twinge of pain. Turning it to the right is what hurts the worst. And, if I sit a certain way the pain shoots down to my sacrum. It's a generalized pain, I think, starting at the base of my neck and going between the shoulder blades. It kind of seems like whiplash, and I feel a little better this morning than I did yesterday, so we'll see how I feel tomorrow before making a doctor's appointment. Whiplash is serious enough, I mean, there's definite muscle spasming going on, but what if it's something else? What if something I don't know about or scary is going on? What if my spine is dissolving and I'm turning into a Filipino writing snake? How will I be able to take pictures? Will I have to buy new clothes? Also, I don't know if I can unhinge my jaw like that. Now that is disturbing.

President Buckner gave a talk during church on Sunday about building Zion. The members lay the bricks, and Christ applies the mortar. That really does make a lot of sense, because no matter how many bricks I place, the wall won't stand firm without mortar. My works can't be without Christ; my intentions, any contributions or participation that may reflect 110% of an effort still isn't enough. It's just a vertical sheet of bricks waiting to collapse into a pile. Mortar is an effective image because of its binding properties. If I involve Christ in my life, every single one of those bricks counts. Every single one of those bricks has value; it can be used to stretch the wall upward, to give it breadth. Even broken bricks have a place. When I have enough mortar, there's no such thing as toss-away bricks.

I'm tired. I need a decent night's sleep. I'm not even kidding.


This was taken at Madison Square Park, at 23rd Street and 5th Avenue. I didn't want to get too close, and I even tried coaxing this buzzer to face the camera, but it seemed pretty shy. Bees have nothing to do with bricks, except that I can get busy as a bee, and the bees' wax that helps form the honeycombs could be compared to mortar, except that the hollow cells in a comb are not the same as cement bricks, and if you expose the wax to enough heat, the whole hive melts, whereas mortar and bricks are supposed to withstand the elements by the hair of my chinny chin-chin. Bees are socially adjusted insects. I do not resemble a bee in this regard, but I wonder if members of the church have ever tried pollinating bricks or if anyone has ever gone into anaphylactic shock from exposure to mortar. Pigs and humans have similar digestive systems. So huff and puff and try to blow the hive in, because mortar is the atonement, and Utah is the beehive state.

So, while I was at the counter at the DMV waiting for my test yesterday, the woman behind the counter asked me, "English or Chinese?" In my clearest nondistinguishing American accent, I said, "English" without even looking up. I was signing some forms at the time. Interesting assumption, eh? Once an older Asian man approached me in Times Square a few years ago and started speaking Chinese to me. I said to him, "Sorry, no Chinese." Do I really look Chinese? If so, then why do the filipino people I meet always get my nationality correct? The DMV woman meant well, but it would have been a little more proper if she asked me if I would like an English test. A lot gets misunderstood in this world, people get offended because of so many assumptions. If I spoke a different language, I would have let her know. Chinese isn't even my native language. And I took French in high school. But, what if - what if - I had said instead, "Wha? Wha you say? Me speakah no Engrish" followed by a sequence of ching-chongs that would have offended the actual Chinese speakers in the room? Would have that made me a better person? No. Would I have laughed like the hypocrite I can sometimes be? Probably. So I guess my initial response was more appropriate.

***I'm going to copy and paste the beginning of yesterday's story here, for your convenience.***

My mom joined the church when we lived in Guam. This was my first conscious exposure to hymns. I was in kindergarten or 1st grade. I had been to Catholic mass a few times, but I don't recall much of the music there. My reading was good for my grade level, but I hadn't been exposed to much outside of Sesame Street. So when I opened one of those old brown hymn books for the very first time, I had no idea what kind of treat I was in for. 

We met in an old doublewide trailer. The living room/kitchen area was the chapel, and the other half of the building were bedrooms converted (ha!) into classrooms. It was Guam, so it was tropic. It probably wasn't very comfortable. I remember sitting off to the side of the chapel with my family our first Sunday. Singing hymns instantly became my favorite part of the sacrament meeting service. The pianist plunked away on that long-used, scratched-up piano, and everyone was singing along, together. It was just SO cool how those words and syllables went to notes on a staff and all the holy melodies I had experienced up to that point were lovely and catchy, and I wanted to have a hymnbook of my very own, so that I could learn the words. I didn't know how to read music back then, but boy, were my ears ever-so poised to catch and memorize every single note of those tunes.

One Sunday in particular, I was sitting at the back of the chapel, which bothered me, because  I liked being able to watch the chorister. I think my mom was pregnant with Frank - she might have been at home, and my dad probably had to help up front. I ended up sitting next to a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a full beard. He had a strong brow, and he seemed nice but quiet.

It came time to sing the hymn for preparing the sacrament. We sang "I Stand All Amazed." What I heard from the man sitting next to me I could not believe. He had the richest, most sonorous tenor voice I had ever heard. I looked up at him and his eyebrows were lifted and expressive as he sang the refrain, "Oh it is wonderful that he should care for me enough to die for me!" And he sang the ends of the phrases with a slight lilt then clipped it off with a huff of breath. It was impeccable. This was around the time when advertisements for Pavarotti's greatest hits were playing on television. All the arias from all his operas, and even a few bonus tracks. And this man at church - with the dark beard and hair, and the hefty build, and the expressive eyebrows, and THAT VOICE - I was so confused. Wasn't Pavarotti in Italy? Wasn't he Catholic? What if this was Pavarotti sitting right beside me? And why had no one else in the congregation noticed?

I'm sure I was convinced every time I saw a Pavarotti commercial that it was the same guy from church. I would compare their features every time I saw Church Guy. Church Guy's hair was dark, but it wasn't as dark. And Church Guy's face was differently shaped. And Church Guy's name was not Luciano Pavarotti. That probably should have been the big selling point, but who can really contain a 6-year-old's imagination? What I did know was that I wanted to sit next to Church Guy every Sunday, so that I could hear him sing. What I wanted was for us to sing "I Stand All Amazed" whenever I did sit by him, because I wanted to feel the thrill of a live concert the first time I heard him.

This past Sunday, we sang "I Stand All Amazed" for the sacrament hymn. The memory as a 6-year-old revisited my conscious and took me completely by surprise. I heard Church Guy's voice echo from the recesses of my mind. Sitting next to me was a little boy, maybe 8 years old. He had dark hair, neatly combed, and a cute face that will develop into a very handsome face. He wore a dark, pin-striped suit and black shoes and tan socks that weren't pulled up but bunched down toward his ankles.  

We were sitting smack dab in the middle of the chapel. The hymnal covers are green now, and the boy was holding a hymnal turned to the correct page in his lap, his head down and focused, following and singing the words as the melody progressed. This child's voice was sweet. And innocent. And earnest. And sometimes sang a word or two too soon. It struck me how truly beautiful that was. I stopped singing for a few seconds so that I could hear him. How lucky was I to sit next to such a wonder, an inspiration, this beautiful soul? It took a lot of effort to keep tears from streaming down my cheeks, I was so incredibly grateful. I guess I have a new Church Guy now.

Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful to me. 

I started writing a little account about a childhood memory while at the DMV waiting for the results for the written test for my learner's permit. Yes, I let my Florida's driver's license expire, then I didn't do anything about it for over two years, so I got a non-driver's ID card, then finally I've gotten around to the whole teenager's process and I can't wait to drive my mom's souped-up station wagon with the wood veneer paneling. The written test was really easy. I've signed up for a driver's education course, and I've signed for a road test. In about six weeks, I'm going to be a legal driver in the state of New York, whereas I was driving illegally in New York and Florida. Please don't tell.

I'll finish the rest of this account tomorrow.

***
My mom joined the church when we lived in Guam. This was my first conscious exposure to hymns. I was in kindergarten or 1st grade. I had been to Catholic mass a few times, but I don't recall much of the music there. My reading was good for my grade level, but I hadn't been exposed to much outside of Sesame Street. So when I opened one of those old brown hymn books for the very first time, I had no idea what kind of treat I was in for. 

We met in an old doublewide trailer. The living room/kitchen area was the chapel, and the other half of the building were bedrooms converted (ha!) into classrooms. It was Guam, so it was tropic. It probably wasn't very comfortable. I remember sitting off to the side of the chapel with my family our first Sunday. Singing hymns instantly became my favorite part of the sacrament meeting service. The pianist plunked away on that long-used, scratched-up piano, and everyone was singing along, together. It was just SO cool how those words and syllables went to notes on a staff and all the holy melodies I had experienced up to that point were lovely and catchy, and I wanted to have a hymnbook of my very own, so that I could learn the words. I didn't know how to read music back then, but boy, were my ears ever-so poised to catch and memorize every single note of those tunes.

One Sunday in particular, I was sitting at the back of the chapel, which bothered me, because  I liked being able to watch the chorister. I think my mom was pregnant with Frank - she might have been at home, and my dad probably had to help up front. I ended up sitting next to a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a full beard. He had a strong brow, and he seemed nice but quiet.

Let's take a walk on the bridge
Right over this mess
Don't need to tell me a thing, baby
We've already confessed
And I raised my voice to the air
And we were blessed
Everybody needs a little forgiveness

"Forgiveness" - Patty Griffin

A few Sundays ago my ward held their testimony meeting, where anyone in the congregation can express their feelings about the gospel. This is one my favorite things about church, because I find a lot of strength in my fellow worshippers. Sometimes the members can ramble; sometimes, they get nervous and suddenly become a little less eloquent, but most of the time I understand what they're trying to say. Most of the time the spirit of the meeting really shines through. And sometimes, the meeting is as dull as all get-out, no matter how hard I try to listen or understand the hearts of those who are speaking. I very, very rarely get up to speak, so I really can't be all that critical.

The meeting a few Sundays ago was approaching borderline ennui (bored-erline?), when a young man walked up to the pulpit. He looked to be 12 or 13 years old, going through a growth spurt, with his lanky limbs trying to catch up to hands, feet and head. My ears perk a little more when the children speak, because I admire their honesty and their complete lack of pretense needs to be given to all the world. This young man went on to say he had been reading his scriptures that week, and he came across a verse. It was in the Book of Mormon, he said, but he couldn't remember the exact reference. He paraphrased the verse, he said the verse said something like, "all things denote there is a God." I knew the verse he was talking about. I knew the story he referenced.

He had my complete attention within the first thirty seconds, and I clung to his every word. He went on to explain what that verse meant to him. He used words like beautiful and hope and comfort. He said whenever he's feeling down, he'd think of that verse, and all he would have to do is look around and see the world around him, observe nature, and that was evidence enough that God exists and loves him. He said he was grateful to have found that verse, and that it makes him happy, and that if we're feeling down, we could just look around. 

All things denote there is a God. The universe and its voids, whose purpose as far as I can see is to show off the stars; the darkness in this world, perhaps to help me appreciate the light all that much more; this church meeting approaching utter boredom, with this lone glimmer of a young man, this teenager, expressing his feelings. He was enthusiastic and his words were so heartfelt, and by the time he said "Amen" and when I assented with my "Amen" my hands were wet from wiping away tears. All things denote. 

I've been trying to swim up to the the surface of the wave of nostalgia that has overcome me. I've had really good conversations with family; I've spent some real quality time with friends. I have one of the best roommates in the world. These times in my life blessings could not be more blatant, nor could I feel more overwhelmed by this bounty I feel I couldn't possibly deserve. Isn't that God, too? Giving us things we don't expect or understand, but all ultimately for our benefit. 

All things denote.

Two Fridays ago, at the end of the work day, I checked my cell phone for messages. I had a voice mail. I looked at the number where the message came from, and it had an area code I didn't instantly recognize. I figured I'd go ahead and listen to the message, since the person took the time to leave it, and I assumed the person knew who I was. It turned out the person who called was my dad. The man who raised me. I don't refer to my parents too often here, but I've tried to be as honest as possible when discussing them. I recognized his voice right away, and I scrolled through my phone book to confirm his area code was from Oklahoma. I hadn't talked to him since summer.

When I have described my dad here, he's been a character in a story. The story happens to be my life, which happens to be true. I've explored my feelings about our relationship; my faith has stretched, my ability and capacity to forgive and try to see people as God sees them has grown. I have let go of a lot of anger, which was more or less internalized for quite a long time. My dad is a good man, well-intentioned; not perfect, just like the rest of this great, big world. He did the best he could, and I know he could have done a whole lot worse.

I heard him through the phone, on his message. His voice hesitated as he apologized. He said he was sorry. Between strained pauses he wanted me to forgive him for his shortcomings and things he's done wrong. My dad, admitting fault, saying he loved me, wanting to know what he could do to make things right. I didn't expect this. It didn't matter that I have already forgiven him. He was putting himself out there, baring his heart. Bearing his heart. Asking my forgiveness. And there's nothing more humbling than your own father approaching you with his bowed head and own broken heart and offering you the blessing of forgiving him. 

I hung up the phone, wiped my tears, and stepped back into the world with lighter feet.

All things.

The studying is going well. I'll be ready for Monday's midterm.

Tomorrow is Sunday. That means my Sabbath daydream. Honestly, though, I don't know what I would do if it came true, if Tim Goblins and Susan Abandon were to talk to me on my way to church.

I'm officially changing that userpic ON St. Patrick's Day. Why do I have to be obnoxious sometimes?

My roommate returned from church and shared a story with me in which one of the speakers read a story with words in it like lap dance and and stripper and street words for various drugs.

It was a completely inappropriate story for church. I'm relatively open-minded, but people come to church to worship, to be uplifted and edified. Members of the congregation walked out of the chapel during your talk, buddy. Whatever it was that motivated you to tell that story also created extreme awkwardness and drove away the Lord's spirit. Again, it's not like everyone is SO pure, but you treated what was sacred to others - the very act of going to church - with very little respect.

And then? When you're done with the story, at the pulpit, you tell your fellow churchgoers you thought it was a pretty funny story, but it looks like they didn't think so.

I felt sorry for my roommate. No one deserves to feel that way during church.

My mom and I talked on the phone today, as I was on my way home from church. It was a fun conversation. It was during this discussion she informed me she reads this - my - blog. "That's okay, isn't it?" She asked. Of course it's okay. When she told me, I got really excited. Read on, I say. Read on. My feelings are all over this website. Four and a half years of A Little Thinking. I'm not embarrassed about anything I've written, especially the snotting and farting entries, because, hello? My mother raised me. She already knows I do those things. Why would I have stopped when I moved away from home?

I'm listening to Obama's victory speech again. This was an excellent delivery. This very well could not only sway me, but anchor me to a candidate to support. I guess it is the idealist in me. Patient idealist, though. Plus? a lot of points I made in yesterday's rant he addressed in his speech. I feel we're on the same page. Yes, we can!

Heard talks today about clean language. Conversation, books, music, movies. I decided to go through my running playlist and omit certain songs and give the reasons for doing so. Let's pretend I have children, and I'd be blasting the music in our home. Children should be allowed to be children. They shouldn't have to see or hear or experience certain things. I want to be able to protect my children for as long as possible. Is that naive? Maybe so, but this is how I'll love them; this is how we'll keep our home pure and a place of peace.

California Love - mom, what's "hoochies"? what's "clocked"?
Girlfriend - don't want to encourage jealousy
Get Me Bodied - it doesn't have to be about sex, but it could be.
The Mating Game - kind of a dirty song, duh - the title?
Lose Yourself - marginal; bad language.
Mr. Brightside - the opening scene is too suggestive
Hey Ya! - I could blank out that one line, but is that the point?
Every Little Bit - aww, man; morning-after regret isn't the most positive message
Don’t Cha - too skanky
Losing My Religion - don't know if I could handle my 3-year old repeating this
Fly - Sugar Ray. The unwholesome thoughts I have are enough of a reason
Falls Apart - see above
The Freshman - not for superyoung ones
The World Has Turned - too angry
No Diggity - too something I can't put my finger on
Toxic - I can't imagine her posters being on my children's walls
Baby One More Time - see above
Come on Over- see above
Wind It Up - see above
Beautiful Stranger - slightly suggestive
Like a Prayer - I don't think I could explain this song
I Will Not Forget You - about a forbidden relationship
Head Over Feet - lyrics
Ironic - lyrics
You Oughta Know - language
Hand in My Pocket - meh, the line about the cigarette

So, 26 out of 80 songs isn't horrible. I guess it could be much worse. I'm still going to teach my children to make good choices and follow their consciences. I love observing the sensibilities children have, especially those I've read and heard about here, in LJ. You know who you are, parents.

Hmm. Remember the Barack Obama sticker I gave my roommate? She thought it was funny. However, she came home with a big, obnoxious Hillary Clinton '08 sticker, and stuck it right above the Obama sticker, which found its way to the kitchen door. So before I went to bed, I put the Obama sticker above Hillary's and called it a night.

I need a nap.

This year's course of study in Sunday School is the Book of Mormon. The first book tells a story of a prophet, Lehi, who has a vision. There's a tree with bright, white fruit. There's a path leading to the tree, a rod of iron alongside the path. A river of water sidles this path, and on the other side of the river is a great and spacious building, in the air, full of mocking, prideful people.

This vision is all about Christ. Lehi dreamt he partook of the fruit and felt indescribable joy and he wanted to share the fruit with his family, who hadn't yet made it to the tree. On the path was a thick mist of darkness, where people got lost if they didn't hold on to the iron rod. Some people who did eventually partake of the fruit were ashamed and embarrassed, because the people in the spacious building made fun of them.

We learn the tree represents the love of God; the iron rod is the word of God, the mists of darkness are temptation, the building across the river is the pride of the world. The fruit is eternal life. It makes sense to me - God's love bears eternal life. Along the way are tons of choices and pitfalls and distractions. Even after some eat the fruit they still have the option of going back to their worldly ways or following God's plan. We throw around a certain phrase in the church, "endure to the end."

Far too many examples in the scriptures show what happens when one grabs hold of the plan, but doesn't see it out to the end. King Saul and King David are two classics. They get a little bit of power or lust briefly overcomes them, and they find themselves farther from the path than when before God changed their hearts.

Lehi wanted to share the fruit with his family immediately. He wanted them to experience the same happiness and joy he had. We learn eternal life is the greatest of all the gifts of God. Who wouldn't want that? Who wouldn't do better without the perspective of God's purpose for us on this earth is our eternal life? with Him? We, his children, are his sole, therefore most important, cause.

Part of the process for us is learning what this means. Is eternal life too abstract, too transcendental? Is it ridiculous that life extends and progresses beyond mortality?

Lehi is a type, a symbol, of our Heavenly Father. His fruit is Christ; he knows the happiness the fruit can bring to his children. He wants all of his children to partake of it. Not all of them do. Not all of us will. The fact remains. While it is accessible, we still have the choice to embrace and incorporate it.

This carries over into other aspects of our lives. Religion or spirituality is a hard thing to separate from our lives, as it truly is a finely, strongly stitched part of our identities. If you commit to a religion or a spiritual way of life, it's hard to be halfhearted about it. What happinesses have you experienced that you were so excited sharing you couldn't contain yourself? How have they affected your life? How does play into the person you are becoming?

The only thing I have to write about laundry is that I have to do it. It's a nice, giant pile now in my room, and I have to somehow find or muster the desire to do the laundry. It's embarrassing.  I wish it could do itself. I guess I don't mind it so much now. My apartment is maybe ten feet from the laundry room. Plus, I like the smell of clean clothes and having drawers full of neatly folded things. So why don't I just do it already? Maybe I'm afraid of losing yet another sock. How many lonely socks do I have now, with their matches mysteriously missing?

***
One more thing about rainbows. I think about them all the time without realizing it. And, they have names. Jenny and Sarah and Ray and Lisa and Becky and Laura and Andrea, etc. Light strikes them, and it shines through them and beams from them a vibrant array of colors.  Yes, they're colorful. Personalities, souls, moods, memories. They illuminate those around them. What a blessing.
***
I had an opportunity to speak before the ladies' class today at church. It was pretty much a last-minute situation, and I had to present some thoughts about how visiting teaching has affected my life. Once we decided I would do this, that familiar nervous feeling crept into my abdomen, and I wasn't all that sure what to say, but before I knew it, it was my turn at the podium, and I just let the words fall or stream or fumble out of my mouth. I did look out into that audience of amazing ladies and make some eye contact. I said I was kind of new to the ward, and I was looking forward to meeting them and making friends. I was saying this rather quickly, as my speech gets on the fast side when I'm nervous. I saw some smiles and nods and no one wasn't paying attention. I felt great after expressing my feelings and making myself a little better known for the people at church. It was a great experience. It created the chance for some the ladies to approach me after church and introduce themselves, and I can't even begin to say how excited I am to see their colors work magic in their intricate and extensive networks. Ah, human interaction.
***
My apologies for the obnoxiousness of the online journal lately. Reading about running four days a week can be as tiring as the running itself. You see, though, while I write to you readers, I write for me. It easier for me to keep track of things here. Plus writing for everyone to see adds accountability for me to hold fast to my goals. So, while I flatter myself to think you read everything, I'm more content thinking I have your support, whether it's for running or raingutter regattas. Or internal struggles and life's hard knocks. Of course, you do have the choice to skim/skip over the running stuff and dive into whatever else that might interest you. You have my support, too, but it goes far beyond quid pro quo. We know that; we understand. And that understanding is why we'll always be fine with writing and reading whatever the heck we want, from each other and for each other.
***
Interesting. Tomorrow, we'll discuss dancing.

a lady at church really reminds me of mary ingalls.  i've expressed before my admiration of both laura and mary.  i haven't read any of the little house books, but i am steadily watching the series.  i really like mary.  maybe it's because i identify with her being the eldest child.  maybe i appreciate her wanting to keep things in order and her sense of responsibility for the family.  maybe i can also identify with the slight attitude of being better than everyone else, just because she's the eldest.  doesn't necessarily mean smartest; just better.  it's a funky complex, if it's a big deal at all.  but more than anything, i really respect mary's desire to try hard. she does her best.  she's diligent and compassionate and sensible yet passionate.  she tries to be everything to everyone.  always the idealist, she is.

the lady from church and mary ingalls have similar countenances.  they seem to be always striving to be righteous and a good friend to everyone.  so, no doubt i root for mary ingalls; i'm totally on her side.  so this lady, as far as i'm concerned, i'll always admire.  she's cool; she was one of the first people who reached out to me in friendship when i first started going to church in union square.  i can't speak for anyone else who knows her, but all i know is i am definitely a fan.