Ah, the Wind

In my life there have been many experiences that have shaped the way I look at things. Experiences with family members have led to a deep appreciation of faith, of music, and of dice and card games. Friends have been influential in forming a love of acting, of playing sports, and of enjoying just sitting around learning more about people I don't live with.

Fear has played a vital role in my appreciation of wind.

I need to point out right now that I love the wind. On hot summer days, it cools the world as it playfully dances across fields and roads. It's usually soft and comforting fingers slide across me, like a beautiful woman massaging aching and burning muscles, relaxing all and causing a smile to slide across my face. Yes, I love the wind.

It hasn't always been so. I remember as a child my family loved hiking. We'd sweat and toil up the mountain side (how you can sweat up a mountain is beyond me), our hearts pounding, or at least mine always was, as we reached the top and rested, proud of the accomplishment and awestruck by the view. I can't understand why houses that are often described as being shanty and dirty can look so beautiful from the top of the mountain, but anyone who has been up there know that it truly is a breathtaking sight. Being the curious child that I was, I enjoyed seeing what over the edge of the mountain face looked like. Invariably, I would see the dizzying drop or steep incline below me, and begin to feel as if someone was trying to push me over. It was always the wind I attributed this to. The wind wanted to kill me.

I'm not sure exactly why I felt the wind had such malicious intentions. He (at that time the wind seemed a stern man, I've since learned that that is quite incorrect, the wind is most definitely a woman) was gentle enough in the valley, but on the mountain where so much depended on one step, he seemed brutal and unkind. The wind most definitely wanted to do me in.

I had this reinforced on a trip eastward for a family reunion. As is often the case in the Nebraska area, there was a tornado right when we were driving through. As we drove, you could see the Semi-trucks tipping back and forth, leaning in the wind, and it was frankly freaky. I was terrified, and my dad must have been concerned as well. We pulled off into a rest stop, where we watched the wind push garbage cans and later on vending machines around. It was like some big jedi was using the force in an attempt to make me hyperventilate, and it was close to accomplishing its goal. We were luckily only on the edge of the tornado zone, and it passed after about a half an hour or so, but after that my fear was set: the wind didn't like me.

For a very long time, so long that I don't care to admit to it, any breath of wind would make me tense up, ready for garbage cans to come rolling around and hit me, or roofs to break off and smash me, or just to be picked up and carried away, never to be seen again. This lasted a long time.

One day, though, I realised how silly it was to be afraid of the wind. So, on a particularly stormy night, I went out and had a conversation with the wind. I felt her pull me this way and that, I felt her scream past me in a gale, seeming to hurl obscenities and threats at me.

And then, in that storm, I understood the wind. It might be that it's just the changing of air that's trying to get from one very compressed and over heated area to somewhere not quite so warm, or it might be a plethora of scientific explanations, but I decided then that it was simply another one of God's creations, and that He was talking to me through it (or her, I prefer thinking of the wind as a woman now. Does that say something about me?).

Every time a cool wind blows, when trees sway back and forth in simple rhythm to the playing of the wind, I think of God's voice in my life, or I just relax and enjoy the sensation of receiving a free massage. Oddly enough, I relax more for those massages then ones that even the most gentle woman has ever given me.

Hug Me, Dang It!

I'm not really used to using exclamation marks in the title, partly because my upbringing has led me to abhor all over uses of the exclamation mark. I still remember the correlation my dad drew up between the uses of exclamation marks and the speaking style of a stereotypical valley girl. Like, oh my gosh! This paragraph has so much pizazz!

Or something.

However, in this case, I felt that an exclamation mark might just give the effect I wanted to the title. Why's that? Because even though I have a tendency to hide any and all real passion as deep as I can, there it is. Hidden below many levels of alternating happiness and yellowness and quietness, there lurks a quiet friend. A friend who may be denominated as a Jekyll or a Hyde. Some days, he comes up to show a passion in what is good, a passion for what is most appropriate, a passion for the way things ought to be. It's kind of fun when he surfaces, though most people seem to find him a little unnerving.

Also hidden, though not quite as evil as the Hyde of story book making, a more basic type of passion lurks. It's a natural sort of thing, but I'm not really going to talk about him right now.

No, I'm going to talk about something amazing, that's linked to each and every one of our passions: our bodies. No, this is not a sixth grade movie or slide show about how amazing our bodies are, or even a presentation on general hygiene or the upkeep of failing organs (my eyes and hair, both very necessary to that part of me I refer to as self image, are weakening like a flute player running out of air), but rather the statement of something I've come to believe about my body in particular, and by extension, every other person's body as well.

Satan must be pretty darned ticked at us. If you believe in the story of the rejection of him and his followers as found in the King James version of the Bible, you'll know that he actually doesn't have a body. The more I think about it, the more I realize that we were all pretty smart not to go down that road. Because, spirits, as many people are wont to remind us, are not the most feeling of creatures.

What senses do physical bodies have? Sight, smell, touch, um, there's two or three more, I'm sure of it. Oh, yes, taste and hearing. Can you imagine never having had strawberry cheesecake? Oh, just the thought of eternities without cheesecake are enough to make me glad I went the right way. Even just a strawberry, fresh, with just enough zing in it to make you know your mouth is awake, but at the same time sweet and refreshing. Yeah, I'm glad I have taste.

Now, I'm not sure if these senses are something that are unique only to our physical frames. However, can you imagine what it would be like to go through an eternity without smell? The clean (but ironically dirty) smell of the good earth, just as the rain has fallen, the honest smell of saw dust from working on a garage or other projects that your father has put you up to do, the sumptuous smell of lasagna as you walk in the door, the sweet feeling of smelling home made cookies, the enchanting smell of a woman's perfume (if you're a guy. Girls, please don't be enchanted by other girl's perfume. You can like it, sure, but no enchantment.) and the list gets too long. It's awesome to have a body.

Oddly enough, touch seems to be something that our bodies just can't get enough of. As infants, our growth and development has been proven to be retarded if there is no one there to just hold us, to rock us back and forth and to physically touch us. As we grow up, we hold mom and dad's hands, giving hugs and kisses. More older still hormones take us on a wild ride of wanting to hold other girls' hands (or guys, you know what I mean you silly people) to kiss (at which point in this blog my face goes red, evidence of my own standing in this sector) and other things. Throughout life, one of the major ways of communication is a simple touch.

I've talked before how hugs can actually become a rather developed form of communicating. I should mention that one of the five love languages, according to that one guy who wrote the book "The Five Love Languages" is physical touch. Our souls, the conjuncture of body and spirit, cry out to enjoy the body that they've been given, to take advantage of the marvelous gift that we've received for having chosen to follow the Savior at the first. The spirit, something that seems to me to be less adept at giving hugs, sure does enjoy hugs.

And in my case, every so often the spirit demands them.

People need hugs. Go give them one. It's nice. It's even nicer when the person hugs back.

Poetry Soup

Once again, it has come time for me to share a poem. And so, here it is, the unrefined (meaning roughest draft there could be) jumblings of my brain.

Poetry Soup

As slashes and swirls
Dance across the page,
They paint a picture with
Less than a thousand words.

An angry “The” got up
To clash with a defensive
“And” who sought nothing
But to bring two “The”s together.

Vowels and consonants
Raced each other in a whirl
And bumped a comma who
Was avoiding the period,
Not wanting to be a semicolon.

Every once and a while
A consonant and vowel
Crashed into others
And a conjunction was inevitable.

This crazy dance got faster
And faster as the words,
Punctuation and letters got more
Heated, passionate, and moving.

Till it seemed this literal soup
Would exceed its bowly limits,
And that is when this paper filter
Fell in the soup, then all that
Literary movement got stuck on a page.

Why

“I’m a team player. No, I’m not a polygamist.”

This blog has absolutely nothing to do with the saying; I just thought it was funny, so I put it here with the intention of making someone smile. If you just smiled, whether at what is quoted here or at me actually taking the time to tell you that I put it there just to make you smile, (and if you happen to be one of those lovely ladies with whom a crush is forthcoming, then that was meant specifically for your smile, ‘cause it makes me go all gooey on the inside) then I have succeeded in my quest.

I think making people smile is a good sort of quest.

All of that is beside the point. As many of you know, and as those who don’t shortly will, I enjoy music. I have enjoyed music since the days of my youth, when we actually have home videos of my Dad getting out his guitar and playing some song from the primary. The primary, as you probably know, but for the sake of clarity and also to make myself feel good about my own capabilities of description, is a place in my church where little kids go to learn about God and all of the things he does for us. One of the most powerful tools of teaching, both for children or adults, has always been and will always be music.

I can’t say that I’ve always been the most inspiring when enjoying music. In the home video I mentioned before, it ended on the happy note of me deciding that it was “my turn” to sing, and when I didn’t get my way, I started crying. I’ve had great lungs since very young, it seems, because the crying was louder than anyone’s singing. Perhaps the best part of the whole thing was that, after I started crying, the camera went to my dad who then said “this happens all the time.”

Kudos to me. Anyway, I love music and always have. I have to thank my mom for that, for her love of music and for gathering all of us kids around the piano to sing songs, secular and sacred, that seemed to bind my family together, and throughout time those melodies have traveled the distances and times between my family members and have united us together in harmony. Oh, goodness that was sappy.

In my love for music I gravitate towards singing opportunities. One of which is a choir that sings with the institute of religion that I attend. We sing a large variety of songs throughout the fall and spring semesters, with plenty of opportunities for performance. I love this choir, so when a friend asked me to name a few good reasons why she should return to the choir next year, I was a little befuddled. Who wouldn’t want to return? I gave, as my reasons, the chance to get closer to God, and also the chance for social interaction.

It’s been about three weeks since that choir took a break for the summer semester, and I’ve had the chance to think about what I said, and what my reasons are for going back to the choir next year. In an effort to redeem my lack of eloquence before, I’m going to bear a little of my soul and explain why I’m going back to choir next year.

I was right about the social interaction, for one. I have a great system of friends now, because I was in choir. There are lots of sects that are Zionistic, one of the more famous of today is the FLDS ranch “Hoping for Zion” in Texas that has been in the news of late. Basically the idea of being one community, united in effort and ideal, is something that most people like. In a choir or band, this happens naturally; there’s one leader, one person that everyone follows to some extent, and the intent of everyone in the choir is to produce something that others find beautiful, that is pleasing to the senses, and that makes the singers/performers happy. You can’t go to the same class every day and have the same basic intent as sixty people without making friends. Perhaps that’s why religion is good at bringing people together as well.

Now, the reason number one that here appears second, that going to choir gives the chance to get closer to God, deserves a little more explanation than just that sentence. I am deeply religious, and so this point is particularly important to me. I’ll explain what this choir has done in this respect, specifically for me.

Service, getting out and following the example of instructions of a loving God as far as the treatment of others, is a marvelous way of coming to understand what an amazing and loving character God really is. When you come to know someone, and to serve them, you begin to see what God saw when He made that person, you feel love for them, and you begin to understand how important every last one of His creations are to Him, and how much care he puts into their lives. Music is one of the most comforting influences that I know. Singing in person, or hearing live music, is often much more powerful than listening to a recorded song. Singing then becomes a great service of comfort, and as you sing, you’re servicing not only those who hear, but yourself. My soul responds to that feeling more than many other things in this world, and it makes me happy.

In the midst of service, and especially when singing a more religious type of song, something else occurs that is worth noting. In Doctrine and Covenants, a modern book of revelation, the Lord says “My soul delights in the song of the heart; yea, the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me.” Each song we sing, whether it be specifically worshipful or not, becomes a prayer of faith and devotion if sung in the right attitude (and as long as it’s not sung in a disrespectful attitude), and therefore every moment we spend singing is time spent worshipping God. I love to sing, and I love being closer to my Lord, so having both at the same time is better than having your cake and eating it too. In the choir I participate in, that means an hour every day of singing and worshipping. It’s only natural that one would get closer to the Lord because of that.

There is one more reason why I’m returning to choir. The scriptures speak of singing the song of redeeming love. I can’t say that I know exactly what that song is, but I can say that as I sing, I feel love for my God, and I feel His love for me, so it becomes a song of love, and a work of love to be there, singing.

There is something beautiful in music. If music be the food of love, sing on ‘till I am filled with joy.

Magic

Magic. That’s what this new template reminded me of. Magic.

Magic has played an important role in my life. How ironic, something that doesn’t exist being so important to me, a being that I know exists, and as Descartes might tell me, I’m the only thing of which I’m sure exists, other than God, and yet something that is accepted by everyone, almost, over the age of twelve as being something completely not real is, for me, something that still plays an active role in my life. Even Harry Potter’s creator would admit that this world needs imagination and not magic, but I say that the world is full of magic, we just don’t realize it.

I’d like to invite you into a little portion of my brain. It’s beautiful there, this small portion. Imagine yourself on an average parking lot. Nothing really that spectacular about the lot, just a gentle downward slope to the north. The lot is adjacent to a beautiful old building made out of red brick. The lawn of the building is always kept green, except in early spring when it is airated and little children take turns believing the clots of dirt are first dog poo and then grenades, to be thrown at any and all enemies whenever you come in contact with them.

It’s a pleasant scene, but it’s not the place I remember as magical, the place that is still magical to me. Just north of the parking lot, there is a deep gulley, cut out by the constant eroding of a determined stream. With sides that are steep, the gulley is more like a small valley, creating it’s own atmosphere, it’s own feeling, so different from that of only a few feet up and to the south. One descends a mere ten feet to find all outside sounds have been cut off, and the only sound is the omnipresent bubbling of the stream about twenty feet below. The sides of the gulley are covered in lush undergrowth, and trees that appeared dwarfish from the parking lot suddenly become towering giants, seeming to hide tree-elves, those scheming tricksters who wait to play trick on the unwary travelers. If you listen closely, you might just hear a raccoon playing in the stream, or washing his food in preparation for the family supper. Thick foliage and trees effectively block houses from view, and it’s like stepping back in time, to when knights feared of demons and dragons, where elves walked freely and talked with men, and hobbits, though skittish, could be convinced to trust their noisy cousins.

I always thought I would find something unusual there. Wake up one day (after camping) to find a small dragon looking through my things, or perhaps that I should find that I had woken up in midst of a real forest, somewhere I could wander around forever, only to come out and find myself in a strange world, a strange place where anything was possible.

Each day I felt that way, I’d wake up in the same gulley. The morning there was always breathtaking. The stream combined with the steep sides made for chilly mornings, where the cold was trapped there, so waking up there was always a lot of dew around. For a few precious moments when the sun came up, high enough to be seen from the gulley floor, everything glittered, like a thousand diamond drops on each leaf. It was beautiful.

However, there is a dilemma: I still believe in the possibility of a lot of those things. I am not that odd in this belief. I find things like dragons, impressive animals and talking beasts to be a lot more believable than many of the fantasies regarding relationships that are thrown at me from modern entertainment. Perhaps this betrays a small amount of jadedness on my part, but so I see it. Magic, then, happens all the time, but in different ways.

And so, my friends, look! See the magic. There’s little things all the time that speak of beauty, of fairy dust falling, of potion dipped arrows, of greatness. Feel the magic. No, I don’t want you to go to Disneyland.