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.

Regression

It seems that when one wants especially to jot down all the jumbled up thoughts and observations that moment is precisely when those thoughts refuse to organize themselves into anything resembling coherency (which may or may not be a word, but for the present circumstances will be allowed past any and all detectors of falseness, seeing as this is, as you will see, nothing more than a schematic of my thoughts and often I think false things). Having said that, I say now, what a wonderful thing (which I have recently been told is a completely guy adjective, no pun intended for those who have seen "That Thing You Do.") it is to once again be joining the blogging world in trying to make sense out of the insanity that is my life inside my brain, which I assure you is much less organized than my bedroom, which my mother insists on referring to as the climatic chaos of an otherwise well developed habitat. Okay, maybe she doesn't say that on a regular basis, or at all for that matter, but it sounded fun in my head, so why not put it here?

This is, after all, an attempt on my part to get rid of a serious case of writer's block that I've had for almost a month now. Thoughts of how much I write about dating and relationships (which, coincidentally, take up a rather appalling amount of my thought time) and my complete lack of material, or the exact opposite of over abundance of writing material, have kept me in the dark as to what I should write about. Once again, in an allusion to the mad mad world that is my life, I told my mother that I feel the need to go on a date, but that I'm at a loss as to where to start. To which my mother wisely responded "well, you might try starting with calling someone and asking them out."

Word well spoken. Perhaps, I thought, those words would be a great motto for anything. It becomes a strange thought to do so when thinking "I really feel the need to go to heaven." I doubt that asking out heaven would really be the ticket, though a slight play on the words, and taking it more of in a symbolic sense than in an actual literal sense, might be exactly what one is needing.

The point of the rambling that has gotten me to this point is, of course, to say that the way I have chosen to get over my writer's block is to simply write. And write I am, (that is not correct but I don't care!), writing whatever random thoughts cross my mind! I'm hoping that what ends up recorded here will be both thought provoking and nonsensical, seeing as that is the type of writing that I find most enjoyable.

I think I'll start (or continue, as the case may more accurately be described) with an observation that came late last night, after I had finished being sick. See, I was sick for a long time, and spent, quite literally, the entire day in bed yesterday. In my delirium, though, I pondered over reactions that some girls had to a show, "The Holiday" I believe it was called, and comparing those reactions to other reactions from the feminine gender. I'd like to say right now, though, that the movie portrayed some pretty screwy philosophies. One of which was that physical displays of affection are cheap things that can be bartered about with reckless abandon and will not have any affect at all on what happens to the true love of people. I say true love because I mean the actual thing that joins two people together for more than just the duration of hormones. It's kind of weird, really, but different physical displays, hugs, kisses and, yes, the three letter 's' word that is so taboo in my culture (or at least in my head) that I will not actually write it here. Though, if movies are any indication I can spell it out, as long as I don't say it, and be a-okay! That's an odd thought, when you consider that I'm writing this.

Anyway, my point was about the reactions (I told you I would write this as it came to my mind! It's you're own fault if you didn't believe me). I've discovered a fool proof way to be attractive. Seriously! I've discovered something absolutely amazing. It seems that I was incorrect in my assessment of the character of Mr. Darcy, and why he's so attractive to otherwise logical women, as well as my overall assessment of the attractiveness of each and every one of Ms. Austen's male characters. What makes a man attractive (are you ready for this), are the three 'B's. British, Bounteous, and Beautiful. Yes, I thought of that while I was delirious, and yes, it made me laugh.

I realise that some people will disagree with me. They have obviously never been in a room predominated with females, all very vocal about their varying states of attraction toward male actors. Yes, indeed, after much thought, I have come to this fool proof conclusion. If you are British (the most important part of this being that you have a British accent, because it gives off the air that you know what you're talking about and you sound oh so sophisticated, which as Tolkien Boy, and English major, informs me, is actually a fact, that British accents make people sound more intelligent, even though they just may not be) which is unfortunately something that can only be given through birth but, in a pinch, just living in England until you have a believable accent will do, you're doing well. Now, if you're a rich British (that would be bounteous), then you're doing extremely well, and chances are you will be meeting someone important to you within the weekend.

All of these may be trumped, though, if you don't happen to be beautiful. I've found that small discrepancies on this account are forgivable, if you have the other two 'B's, but if you don't have one of the other two 'B's and are sadly lacking in this particular acronym, you're bound for trouble. Oh, the sad and sorry state that is life.

Actually, that brings up another thought. Are men thought cowards if they don't kiss a girl? Thanks to Disney and other related companies, the type of importance that is connected with a kiss ought to make the first kiss something of a ceremony, special and important. So, the question comes, when a guy is hesitant about kissing someone, does that make him a coward, or just wise to not go around sharing something that special with every girl he finds physically attractive? I've heard that emotional attraction can only grow with time, and that physical attraction is the only thing we have to go off right at first, and so I just have to wonder, if someone guards their lips, does that make them weak, or does it just mean that it's important to them?

Maybe it just means that they don't have very much experience kissing and so they put a whole lot of thought into the whole thing.

Probably.

I discovered something amazing. The reason that Nintendo games aren't really that satisfying is because you can't talk about them with your friends, really. I mean, if you talk with them about loads of yard work, and how beautiful your yard looks now, the things you've done, and about the sexy new tan you have (I'm borrowing someone else's words at this point, I'm sure) then you have something that other people will listen to. But if you start talking about "game high points" and "records," most people don't really find that all that interesting, and it's actually pretty hard to talk about.

Not that playing Nintendo is a bad thing. I love it, especially when I really don't want to think about anything at all. Then Nintendo is great, because I don't have to think. Maybe it's due to the fact that it's basically a computer that generates information based on a set amount of rules and those rules must be followed throughout the game and are relatively finite in number. That would mean that our impressive brains lock onto the "code" or set rules extremely quickly, and then they go on computer mode, where they basically produce what is required at the correct moment. Our minds become little more than computers. And computers don't think. Which means, at that moment, we don't think.

Look out, Plato, here I come.

Well, I think that about kills my writer's block. Or at least I hope so. I hope that you enjoyed my ramblings. They may not have been as rambling as I'd hoped, but, hey, nothing organizes like seeing the chaos written down.

Completely Random

Amidst the strife that surrounds my life at this time of year, I've had a lot of really strange thoughts and seemingly random observations. For instance, I've noted that I dislike seeing beautiful women. That might be because my heart does a little flip and belly flop every time it happens, and that can be painful, and may lead to heartburn. The scientists are still debating as to the validity of that statement.

Finals is a great time to get frazled. Everyone expects it of you, and honestly, it's a natural thing that happens. I've actually discovered that taking tests and writing papers can be more enjoyable than some classes are. For example, my current political science class is of such a kind that I would probably be better off not going to class (which I will no more forever) and just reading the book and taking the tests. It's not really that much different from what I do anyway, seeing as the minute I sit down, open my lab top, and connect to the Internet my mind checks out anyway, and my professor could announce that the entire class would be receiving 'A's on the final as long as they were willing to go and talk to him before hand, and I would completely miss it.

I've had a lot of interesting experiences this semester with my laptop. One day in Spanish, the professor was explaining a rather potent piece of poetry when I guffawed out loud. You see, I was chatting with a humorous friend, and the joke she had said moments before was the type that made it hard for me to control the laughter. I was subjected to one of the most evil stares by the professor. Good thing she was a substitute and not my regular teacher.

I've also found out a lot about girls. I have been chastised a few times for contradicting myself here in this blog. Self contradiction seems to be a human normality, and I no longer feel bad about it. Philosophy may hold that contradiction means weakness, or even that when one contradicts one's self then it is a sign of lack of intelligence, but I've come to the conclusion that all imperfect beings are in a process of gaining further understanding, and so it becomes very common to contradict what one has said before, as greater knowledge becomes part of who we are.

I mention self contradiction because I've discovered that everyone, including myself, is confused. I mean it. There are a few basic truths that anyone can know, but past those building blocks of knowledge the grand majority of everyone is just as lost to what is really going on as I am. For example (this is part of what I've learned about girls. Hold your breath, here we go!), I understand that girls would like to be appreciated for their talents, their personality, their way of thinking, and the different things that describe them, and not (heaven forbid) for their divinely shaped bodies. If I'm wrong in saying that girls often express the desire to be cherished for their personalities and their amazing souls over physical appearance, you may correct me if you wish (but I probably won't believe you). Now, if you take that idea, and compare it to a statement I heard, "Dating really is a game. You have to talk to a guy two or three times before he'll even consider asking you out on a date," from the very lips of a pretty sensible girl that I know, you must concede the contradiction. If a guy is expected to ask a girl out before he even talks to her, what must he judge on? Looks, and looks alone.

I realize that this particular argument has many holes, but just to add to the feeling, another person I know stated that she was waiting for a missionary, and the specific thing that she listed as being important was that he is taller than she is. I understand that girls enjoy feeling protected and taken care of, and that this may lead to girls desiring someone they date to be larger than themselves, but the emphasis is still the same. it was a little disconcerting, really, though I was glad for a little glimpse into what someone thought.

I may have inflamed countless people by now. It's kind of fun, actually. You see, I'm just as confused as you are, and must therefore not be taken any more seriously than the most foolish, or any less seriously than the most wise.

Girls are not, by far, the only ones living a double life. Guys as well (and I should know, I'm one of them) frequently lament the fact that no one actually appreciates "them." You know, the part that they hide so that no one can see, the part that they make very sure will never see the day light, and then they complain that no one seems to understand them. Sound familiar? Well, let's just say I have a lot of personal experience with that one.

I really didn't mean this to be solely about oddities of the various genders (or perhaps just of people in general), but there it is. Perhaps, in the end of the day, we'll all realize that what we truly want is to feel appreciated for everything, for our minds, for our talents, for our bodies, and yes, even appreciated with our weaknesses and faults; and maybe, just maybe, when we realize that we already do that to others, or when we start doing it to others, we'll realise that it's already happening.