Cheer

I've been accused of being a scrooge towards the tail end of November. I have rules about welcoming in the Christmas Season. The biggie? No Christmas music until after Thanksgiving. The purpose of this rule is twofold. One, to make sure that Thanksgiving gets some stage time. I've always hated that the day after the Fourth of July the Halloween decor goes on sale, and on November first, department stores bust out the ornaments, fake snow and reindeer sweaters.

No.

I refuse to be suckered into holiday commercialism. Turkey day is a special day and not only because stuffing is wonderful or because pumpkin pie is akin to manna. I love it not only because it's a holiday about remembering to be grateful, but because it means I get to be surrounded by the people who mean the most to me. That, is worth having a rule.

And two, if we sang Christmas songs 365 days a year, not only would they completely lose their charm and cheer, but I think we would all hate them. Honestly, I can barely take Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer for 31 days, let alone nearly twelve times that many.

I would argue that I am the antithesis of a scrooge. I love cheer as much as the next Christmas Elf, I just keep it special and apart from the every day gladness. My efforts stem from nothing more than wishing to maintain the novelty and uniqueness that graces our days during December.

Last night we went up to Salt Lake to welcome in the Holidays. BrightBoy and I met up with Dental Cousin and the rest of her family to see this guy perform at the Gateway. The concert was fun and festive and it preluded the lighting of the tree. Possibly the most hilarious part of the night was the enthusiasm the family had for these 3D-type glasses that made the lights look like snowflakes, stars, or snowmen. As soon as you got over how absolutely ridiculous you looked walking around downtown with paper glasses on your face, it really did lend to a lighthearted and Christmassy mood. Chippy was my special pal for the first half of the night and might I say that we made a stunning pair.

The concert was followed by dinner with OlderAndWiserToo, her good friend FancyFeet and FancyFeet's highschool romance AutoCharm. The three of the them were hysterical to be around. After dinner we headed to the Temple to see the lights and participate in the "Salt Lake Tradition" (as coined by FancyFeet).


We said goodbye to the delightsome trio on the corner of 2nd North and West Temple and BrightBoy and I headed to the car. We took a detour to walk around the State Capitol Building and I was overcome with such a feeling of gratitude and patriotism while I looked at that majestic building. I couldn't have planned a better night filled with light and love. I can't wait for the holidays to get into full swing (when finals are over) and to have nothing to impede my time with those I love to be around the very most.

Butterflies

I was changed last night. They played a perfect set. Really. It was perfect. BrightBoy and I were excited, but not prepared for how surreal the entire concert would be. Never before have I had such a strong aesthetic experience married to such an incredible musical one.

He is undoubtedly brilliant (and so is his team of artists and designers who created an overwhelming, nearly hypnotic display in the arena). Not only did every minute suspend me in a melodic euphoria, the visuals and effects kept my eyes fixed in attentive rapture. I didn't want any of it to stop.

The Deseret News put it this way:

It was anyone's guess where Coldplay would pop up at the EnergySolutions Arena on Saturday.

Sure the band — vocalist/keyboardist Chris Martin, guitarist Jonny Buckland, drummer Guy Berryman and drummer Will Champion — cranked it out on the main stage, but they also grouped together on one of the stage extensions and even appeared in the middle of the crowd in the back corner of the arena.

Regardless where the band played, the nearly sold-out audience loved every note and nuance.

Not only did the band play the hits "Speed of Sound," a condensed version of "Talk," "Clocks" and the encore-ender "Yellow," but also pumped out "Chinese Sleep Chant," "Lost" and "Strawberry Swing."

Martin danced and jumped around like a frenzied Dionysus as he led the band and the audience through a communal journey of music and energy. His voice, including his smooth falsetto, was in top form as he hit the highs in "Violet Hill," "Fix You" and "The Hardest Part."

"God Put a Smile Upon Your Face," which segued into the aforementioned rendition of "Talk," were performed from the stage extension. And while Champion didn't have a full drum kit set up, he played an electric drum pad.

During the acoustic set played in the back of the arena, the band went through "The Scientist" and "Death Will Never Conquer," the latter sung by Champion. One of the biggest cheers came during "Viva La Vida," which was played on the main stage. Champion traded his drums for massive tympanies and the audience became part of the show during the sing-a-long chant at the end of the song.

Throughout the evening, live videos of the band and other abstract images were projected onto six massive orbs and two video screens that hung about the arena.

During each dynamic song, Buckland's crisp guitar leads soared on top of the booming foundation provided by Berryman and Champion.

The main-stage backdrop also served as a video screen and gave all in the arena some up-close-and-personal-time with Martin and the boys.

Opening the evening was the restless southern-tinged tunes from Sleepercar and the chill mix from DJ Jon Hopkins, which got the audience hot and ready for Coldplay.

Possibly one of my favorite moments of the night was when the entire arena erupted in butterflies. Colorful, sometimes glowing, other times silhouetted butterflies. It marked just one of the many times that night when I found myself wiping tears off my cheeks. Seriously. After the show BrightBoy and I wend down to find some butterflies. It was all I wanted as a keep sake. He made me stop when I had nearly twenty. It's good to have someone around to ground me. We ate cold Cafe Rio in the car after the concert and relived every moment. Actually, I have been reliving it daily ever since. Thank you to these two for giving us such a great deal on tickets. I owe you big time.

Loving Coldplay.

Repercussions

I had never thought there would be so many repercussions. It seems like I can't really get away from it; the talk, all the news, all the circular never-ending conversations, all the emotion, all the intolerance, all the hypocrisy, all the ripples in the pond. Will it ever subside?

I was at work today when a professor came in to discuss the future of this program at the University. Being a field heavily dominated by the gay community, BYU's affiliation with the Church is not a good thing for students wishing to break into this field. There has been talk of suspending or discontinuing the program because the doors of opportunity are rapidly closing and funding, placement, networking and communication lines are all down. Students are being advised to take BYU off their resumes and keep affiliation with the church private. It makes me sad.

I've been reading here for the last few nights and many of the verses have struck me. It's incredible how closely much of it mirrors today and how the spiritual leaders were no doubtedly involved in secular affairs. The prophets counseled with the kings and rulers. It was eye opening.

But there haven't been exclusively negative repercussions. As soon as I expressed concern about the issue there was an outpouring of support and love, encouragement and understanding that was shown towards me. Words seemed to come at me from places I had never expected. My Old Testament Professor, a distant friend, a magazine cover, an overheard conversation of people walking by. I got a forward a while back that really brought the last month into clarity:

"... an article quotes a University of Utah student who thinks the Church's involvement in the issue is inappropriate: "I can't believe they're supporting Prop. 8. The church is supposed to be neutral. That's changed now. They can't support a candidate but they can support a proposition. They've warped their stance. I've had to separate myself from the church because of the way they're handling the 'problem' of homosexuality. It's so against what
the church teaches. It's unchristian."

As soon as I read that I immediately thought of a statement from Elder Boyd K. Packer: "In the Church we are not neutral. We are one-sided. There is a war going on, and we are engaged in it. It is the war between good and evil, and we are belligerents defending the good. We are therefore obliged to give preference to and protect all that is represented in the gospel of Jesus Christ, and we have made covenants to do it" (Address to Religious Educators at Brigham Young University, August 22, 1981). And Elder Dallin H. Oaks just explained why the Church is involved with the current issue in an interview with the Church's Public Affairs staff: "The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints must take a stand on doctrine and principle. This is more than a social issue – ultimately it may be a test of our most basic religious freedoms to teach what we know our Father in Heaven wants us to teach."

I bore my testimony to my students today. Those who claim that "prophets ought to keep their noses out of politics" have never read the Old Testament! Think about Moses, and Elijah, and Isaiah, and Amos, and others; they went directly to their respective political leaders and told them what the Lord wanted them to do, what course to pursue. (Can we limit what God can say about anything?) I testified that the First Presidency and the Council of the Twelve Apostles is the wisest group of leaders on earth, and not just from their cumulative intellectual prowess (world-class heart surgeon, nuclear physicist, judge and legal mind, etc., etc.) but because of their direct connection with Heaven, and living by the Spirit every day . . . The truth is restored to stay."

Transition

I think this year's transition from Autumn to Winter has been the most stunningly beautiful changes I have ever been a part of. It was gradual one. A golden one. A crimson one. A chilly one. The warm faded as slowly as the cool came. And silence swallowed the shrills of Summer into the slumber of quiet dormancy brought on by the impending season. The days have been full of gray. Beautiful, deep, warm gray. The air has been brisk, and the thickness of the it has left my face damp as I spent time scuffing the walks and paths home in my red rain boots. Tonight I had to pause and take in the foreboding majesty of the sunset. It was was darkest I have ever seen, only lightly kissed on its undersides with intimations that something warm was there. All is in transition.

I thought about that as I walked home today. Every minute is transitioning to the next, every step to the next, every phase of life, semester, year, decade, era . . . we live in a constant state of transitory change. Flux. Good change and bad change, the slight alterations that take place between the seconds ultimately drive us in diverging directions until eventually we all end up. One.

Pants

I had to post the previous essay I wrote a few years ago and the embarrassing story because today reminded me of a third incident I can lable as a "pants incident." I seriously get myself into ridiculous fixes.

Sitting in my painting class this afternoon, I settled down on a stool and made myself comfortable for the lengthy critique by resting my elbow on the table to my left and my chin on my hand. We began discussing value, composition, craftsmanship and other elements and principles of art, using words that sound good like rhythm, motion, depth, contrast, and feeling to make our observations about the paintings in front of us. About forty minutes into the critique I crossed my legs and my knee was resting against the side of the table. Later I crossed them them the other direction and put my hand on my knee only to felt something sticky. I looked down and gasped at the red paint that had somehow gotten on my jeans and was now all over both pant legs because of my incessant need to cross my legs.

Now, you must understand something about art classes at BYU. The ration of girls to boys is about fourteen to one (most classes have just the "token boy") so naturally the room erupted with "Oh I have soap--" "I've gotten paint out of my shirt before--" "You should work on that now before it sets in..." or "That sucks." I walked over to this sink contemplating how I was going to get both my knees in the sink while simultaneous scrubbing the reddness out of them. Just then my professor offered an extra pair of pants that she had in her studio and said I could wear them while washing mine. I sized her up--Pint sized. Yep. Definitely pint sized--and thought that if I were to fit into her pants, it would be by some sort of magic. Regardless, she brought in a studio worn pair of tan, wide leg pants and slung them over my arm. I thanked her and walked down the stairs to the ladies room where I skeptically locked the bathroom stall door while staring at these little pants.

By some sort of mercy I got them around my waist without much trouble at all but soon looked down and saw that they were dangling a good 8 inches off the floor. Darling. I walked back upstairs to get my soap and find another room where I could conduct a serious scrub-down in the sink. Besides the stares I got for how ridiculous I looked in my sweater vest, floods (and that's an understatement) and loafers, the search for a sink went rather well. I scrubbed and scrapped and by the time I was done, both pant legs of my previously penetrated jeans were saturated with water up the entire length of the inseams. I began to instigate phase two of the operation: drying.

I walked down to the intaglio studio and had a few thoughts. I briefly entertained the idea of putting my pants on the hot plate (normally used to melt rosin or dry hardground to metal plates used for printmaking) but decided that fires could be a problem and melting my pants might be a bad idea, so I resorted to blowdrying my pants. Over an hour of blow drying my pants.

It was incredible how much traffic that intaglio studio got this afternoon. I got a lot of questions including, "If you're wearing your teacher's pants, what's she wearing?!" and a multiplicity strange looks that I returned with a grin, but the oddest looks I got were from the security guards at the MOA. The last hour of class was spent in the Religious Collection Exhibit and I arrived to the gallery still donning my short, loner, painty pants, but added to the ensemble by slinging my damp jeans around my neck so that a pant leg fell neatly down both sides of my neck. I've never looked so swanky in my life.

Not many people can say that they have worn their professor's pants, but I am grateful for mine's generosity and lightheartedness. It made for an interesting afternoon.

Changing

You know you're strapped for time when you resort to changing in the car. Though the following happened a little while ago, things like this seem to happen because I take time-related risks almost daily (like parking in 30 minute zones for 7 consecutive hours of class).

I was driving home from an appointment and had to make a 3:00 practice but, true to form, had packed my day so tightly that I had to change for practice in my car. As I was driving. So at every red light I would ready myself for a quick switch of some article of clothing for another. I must say, I have a slight talent for sneakily changing. I've got tricks.

I was getting ready to change my pants and slowed for the red light while holding my shorts in my right hand. (Pants are one thing that I don't have tricks for). So I pulled of my jeans and was ready to quickly switch them out for my shorts when the line started moving. Crap. I put on the gas while praying that the next light would be red.

For some reason when you are feeling the most vulnerable (I can't imagine too many more humiliating situations to be in while driving down 8th North), you notice just how bad of a spot you're in. The cars that flanked my low-riding Honda were trucks that had recently met up with a lift kit. I swear everyone was peering down into my car.

Naturally, every light from when I took off my jeans to when I got to the field was green. Every. Single. One. Never once did I get a chance to quickly slip on my shorts, so instead I covered as best I could while trying to keep my eyes on the road and put the awkwardness and total me-moment that the whole thing was. Retrospectively speaking, it was mildly hysterical.

Capris

Laundry. As much as I hate it, I do get a small sense of satisfaction from turning the mounds of chaos into neat, organized, piles of folded perfection. In my house, after laundry has been methodically folded and divided into our prospective piles, we place each person’s pile in their room. My mother has gotten the laundry system delegated out and working like a well-oiled machine. Somehow the continuous cycle of clothing never ceases and clothes are always being placed at the foot of my bunk bed. My room is the last one at the end of the hall on the right. It sometimes seems as if I live in the “catch-all” bedroom because all the random hand-me-downs end up in my pile. It’s almost as if there is a downward slope in our hallway and the ill-fitting clothing from my mother’s room slides down the hall and lands in mine. Often I look at these obscure outfits and get a distinct nauseous feeling in the lower left quadrant of my abdomen, but on occasion I get a pleasant surprise by obtaining remarkably retro attire.

One day I received a pair of what I thought were khaki capris. They looked a little “mommy” because they had pleats in the front and a small elastic gather on the back of the waistband, but I decided to try them on anyway. I always have to remind myself that I find gems hidden among the obscurities from time to time. With this in mind, I decided to give the little things a chance. After all, trying on a pair of capris couldn’t hurt.

I started pulling the capris up and soon found that they were practically pint-size. A normal person would stop himself from trying to squeeze into such a little pair pants the moment he realized they were too small. But driven by that stubborn determination that runs through every fiber of my young body, I continued to yank the pants up. As the miniature “mommy” capris reached my upper thighs and hips, I was certain that they would never fit me, but my conviction kicked into high gear and I painstakingly wriggled the itty-bity britches onto my waist.

Once there, the stubborn slacks wouldn’t button. In fact, the button was a good two to three inches away from the hole, but after worming them up this far, I wouldn’t back down. I proceeded to suck in my stomach as far as I possibly could and forced the zipper up as I shoved the button into the hole. I took a second to stare at myself in the mirror and see how ridiculous I looked in my new pair of “mommy” capris. It was a truly hysterical sight. They had squeezed every ounce of excess skin on my legs up and out the top of them, forming the most amazing muffin tops to grace the planet. The muffin top was second only to the painted-on effect the pants had on my legs. They were so tight on me that I could hardly bend my knee without pinching myself. But as soon as I let my stomach slacken, I had the notion that these tiny trousers were going to burst if I didn’t get them off in an instant.

So I started pulling them off, but as much as I wriggled and danced, squirmed and wormed, I just couldn’t seem to get the capris to budge. A series of questions danced through my mind as I was hopping around my bedroom trying to find an escape from the capris that held me bound. At first the questions were more along the lines of, “When was my mom ever small enough to wear these?” or “What ever motivated her to buy such a wretched pair of capris?” But then panic set in once I couldn’t get them off and my questions became. “How am I going to get out?” and “What if someone sees me?!” I was worried that my brother or sisters would stumble upon me, waddling around in my room in tiny pants. This was a valid concern because one of my family’s favorite pastimes is to ridicule each other. We get a strange sense of family unity from never letting those embarrassing moments die, and I knew that this dilemma would be one for the books.

I tried to pull down on the front pockets, but the darn dungarees were so tightly stretched around my middle that I couldn’t fit even one finger into the pockets. I opted for plan B: I continued to tug but this time used the belt loops on the pants as tiny handles and tried to shimmy them off. To no avail. The pants were planted. I began to wonder if I would have to walk downstairs, humiliated, head hung, and find my mom who would laugh her head off at the predicament these planted pants had produced. But I refused. There was no way that shame could get hold of my determination and twist it into dependence on another person to undress me. So I continued to labor over getting my legs free. Worry set in after another five minutes and destructive thoughts raced through my head. “Rip ‘em off!” “There are scissors in the bathroom!” “Slice em! Cut ‘em! They’re ugly anyway!” With my stomach sucked and eyes on the lookout, I started to waddle towards the bathroom when I suddenly stopped. I was too proud and stubborn to leave the room. No way would I leave until the foe that held me bound was conquered and I was set free as a new, stronger woman. I had a firmness of mind that wouldn’t let me back down. I worked on the pants for another ten minutes or so when suddenly they shifted. Somehow in a fit of rage I had gotten them past the widest spot and they practically fell to the floor. Finally.

I took a second look at the horrid pants that had held me prisoner in my room for over twenty minutes, and the feeling of freedom and satisfaction that had come from defeating my captor vanished. To my horror and utter dismay I realized that what I had assumed were capris were actually my nine-year-old brother’s church pants. I felt my face flush as the reality of the situation settled in. I was thoroughly embarrassed for myself. There wasn’t even another person in the room but I was blushing. I folded the pants and took them to where they belonged in my brother’s room. “Nothing ever happened,” I tried to convince myself, but the lingering color in my cheeks proved otherwise. Leaving the pants that were too small with my will that was too large in his room, I walked out feeling almost as small as the pants.

Prophetic

It seems like I can't escape the feeling like everything I read is tailored to me. Yesterday I spent a few hours reading UN Resolutions. I never knew something so parliamentary and diplomatic could speak to my heart.

Today my meetings were much the same, but there wasn't so much surprise in me feeling, at times, that somehow the teacher or speaker had gotten a hold of my heart and mind and tried to figure out a pattern to sew the two together. It must have been an awkward task. But each day I'm feeling more connected and more at peace.

Today during this a quote was read from this talk that was so poignantly prophetic it caught me off guard. I know we're lead by inspired men, I rely on that fact even, but sometimes things that they say decades ago are so prevalent now I am literally stunned.

"Make no mistake about it, brothers and sisters, in the months and years ahead, events are likely to require each member to decide whether or not he will follow the First Presidency. Members will find it more difficult to halt longer between two opinions. President Marion G. Romney said, many years ago, that he had 'never hesitated to follow the counsel of the Authorities of the Church even though it crossed my social, professional or political life.'

"This is hard doctrine, but it is particularly vital doctrine in a society which is becoming more wicked. In short, brothers and sisters, not being ashamed of the gospel of Jesus Christ includes not being ashamed of the prophets of Jesus Christ. . . . Your discipleship may see the time when such religious convictions are discounted. . . . This new irreligious imperialism seeks to disallow certain opinions simply because those opinions grow out of religious convictions.

". . . Concern over the institution of the family will be viewed as untrendy and unenlightened.... Before the ultimate victory of the forces of righteousness, some skirmishes will be lost. Even in these, however, let us leave a record so that the choices are clear, letting others do as they will in the face of prophetic counsel. There will also be times, happily, when a minor defeat seems
probable, but others will step forward, having been rallied to rightness by what we do. We will know the joy, on occasion, of having awakened a slumbering majority of the decent people of all races and creeds which was, till then, unconscious of itself. Jesus said that when the fig trees put
forth their leaves, 'summer is nigh.' Thus warned that summer is upon us, let us not then complain of the heat."

- Elder Neal A. Maxwell

I felt empowered today, continually fortified by that which I know is right. It can be that simple, even if, sometimes, it hurts.

Sweet

It's 3:02 am and I'm still awake at this unholy hour. I'm restless (obviously) and uncomfortable. My eyes are so heavy and my body fatigued, yet my mind is bouncing in eighty million directions. He had it right. So did they.

Have you ever turned on a song that demanded a powerful reaction, that evoked instant emotion, or created that feeling in your throat like you're about 3 seconds from tears. I love those. I need those.

We gallery strolled tonight. The early evening was fantastic. It was filled with music that drifts through your soul. A painting that drew me inside. Poetry that captured my heart. Moments I wanted to suspend in time. Then there was that sweet sorrow of emotion and pain. The conjuring of memories. A time to which seems further away than the years tell me it is. And a place where emotions always burn.

Golden

I'm glad the grounds crew doesn't clean up my secret path that I walk every day. It's almost cathartic to walk on golden leaves and feel them crunch beneath my weight. I always have to pause and take a moment to absorb as I go throughout my day. This morning I took a moment on my path to look down and feel the weightlessness of walking on leaves so thick that the gravel and dirt beneath seem too far away to offer solidity and form.

Golden Slumbers.

I love Autumn for it's reminder of frailty and fragility, for it's constant offering of color and beauty, for the smells that make my skin itch for sweaters, for the crispness in the air that leaves my face stinging as I walk inside. It's a good stinging, a clean one.


Plus, sometimes it's good to get a little stung. It teaches us to button up our coats a little tighter and hug our shoulders.

Reactions

My reaction to the election is no surprise. I'm excited and anxious to watch the next four years unfold. But I was interested in these stories that made me realize that this may be bigger than we realize.

As I watched the results Tuesday night I felt small, and like something far beyond my control was impending. But I wasn't scared.

Ballot

I've seldom felt more sprightly before the sun came up, but I couldn't help being excited to cast my vote among the nearly 117 million nationwide. I hit the line at 6:55 am and the anticipatory wait only made me more enthusiastic. No one should be that lively while waiting in the line. It's obnoxious.

I sanctimoniously signed my name on the blue paper, right above the bar code. With that they gave me a blue card with an American seal and a small, square, gold computer chip in the corner. I held it tight for the last few minutes before I slowly inserted it into the electronic ballot box.

The first question irked me, but it was refreshing to feel like I was taking some sort of test, but there wasn't a wrong answer. That's one of the best parts of America. No one has a corner on good ideas, and no one's are necessarily right or wrong. They just are. And with those ideas we move forward as a society and learn to knit our ideas together in an attempt to eventually lift ourselves and others upwards.

It was absolutely thrilling. I couldn't stop smiling after for two reasons: a) because I was exercising a right that was fought for, one that means I am an American and that my voice matters and b) that my voice really doesn't matter in Utah, and I just found that to be paradoxically hilarious.

Gobama

I can't wait to see how it all unfolds. Be still my beating political heart.

Spooktacular

Halloween came and went again. A co-worker said at our Halloween party that she doesn't celebrate it because it's a "pagan holiday." I wanted to grab her face and ask, "So do you boycott Christmas too?"

He and I went to his parents house for some soup in pumpkin bread bowls and a little spooky cheer. It made me miss the days of spending hours deciding what to dress up as and making my costume (oh wait, I did that this year, but I was cute) and then half that long out wearing it, roaming the neighborhood blocks with my pillowcase (I didn't, however do that). Every year we vowed to go until our pillow cases were full. And every year I got so frozen after about an hour I decided to nix the candy and head home. It's just impossible to bundle up when you're dressed as a fairy princess in pink tights.

We used to always make a stop at the Beesley's Halloween party to eat scones and warm up with some cider. Ideally, we'd time making the pit stop half way through our night and use the warmth as a moment to recharge. I can't remember a year where I didn't hear this while boogieing on their deck.

Maybe the best part of Halloween is coming inside after a night of knocking doors, emptying our cases and examining the loot. Even though I saw every piece before it fell to the bottom of my pillow case, it was always a surprise to lay them all out and see what I got. I realize now that my OCDness was spawned early as I meticulously laid out the candies, turned them all the same direction, and put them in piles according to kind, size, and color. There always seemed to be a miscelaneous pile of obscure candies that those folks who haven't figured out yet that no one likes to eat the Necco Wafers. (Those who do probably like raisins too. And that's just disguisting).

We went to a few dances and I shook my groove thang. After we watched this. There may or may not have been some screaming.