Blessed Sunshine

Origins

"I argued for a purity that exists in language as representation..." --Spring Ulmer, The Age of Virtual Reproduction

What is the purity of representation? Why does literature (or any art) move us? Is it because we're not ready for unfiltered reality/Truth? Is it because we understand through representation? We grasp our purpose and ourselves through what we represent and what represents us?

Perhaps this is why I'm so narrowly focused on generational connections and family?

I liked pieces of Spring Ulmer's collection; I really like some--and the rest I shrugged over. Writing in fragments can work, but not when you use them as an excuse to ignore transitions, strong connections, and flow. Part of the reasons she wrote the book (I think) was to convey a series of important messages. She conveyed, but didn't actually communicate. Disappointing. I had hoped for more.

When we drove to Kuna a few weeks ago, we listened to Cheaper By the Dozen. I forgot how delightful it is. Wesley recommended it to me when I was 17 and I eagerly read it so I could have something to talk to him about without tripping over my pauses and commas. He loves a good story (as do I), but he's convinced that he will never "get" poetry or poetic language (he claims this is because of his logical mind). But I don't know how we can escape poetics--thinking in it is just as logical for me. Representation as multi-layered, all genre?

According to the Bible, we are made in the image of God; are we then creatures of representation--just seeking an original? I don't know if I'm prepared to fathom that origin. But it's something I always think about: even when I'm not aware of thinking.

My thesis title, related to this, is "Evidences of Inheritance (Essays on Closeness)." I think it works, the middle sounds of "evidences" and "inheritance" are a bit too similar, but it captures what I'm trying to do. Represent, that is.

How do you feel about prunes?

My oh my...

Tomorrow I give my first (heavily revised but collected) draft of my thesis to my chair. Can you believe that? I have a table of contents and everything! I've been working on it so much I've almost forgotten to breathe. Thankfully, Levi pulls me out.

I'm hoping to defend the first week of January. I don't know if that is possible, but I'd like it to be. I went to my friend's defense this week and left inspired. I'm excited for the conversation about books and my work. Perhaps my thesis is not quite publishable as a book (yet) but I like to believe it's getting there.

Otherwise--Levi and I finished Huck Finn this week. Despite my English focus in life, I've never read it before. Highly enjoyable. Such an interesting and engaging voice especially when considered as a "cultural commentary" (a phrase a guy in workshop uses often enough to make me think about it). Of course I wondered about his mom, and Tom's mom, and what you do when you have completely different ideas of what "right" is. How do you figure out which to follow? How do you support each other and still uphold your beliefs? How, perhaps this is the important question, do you determine which beliefs are most important to uphold?

(Also this week: a friend from a few years ago in the Colony married a girl that I failed in class. Yes, it's true. The girl never actually attended my class and despite my multiple (kind) e-mails telling her to come or withdraw, I never saw her in person. When we received the announcement I knew she was familiar; we didn't attend the reception in case she put my name with the glaring E on her transcript. (Not something I'd like to be reminded of on my wedding day...). Congratulations to them, though. This thought gives me some comfort at not teaching next semester--at least I won't have to fail anyone! But I will miss my students, especially those from this semester, terribly.)

Another question on truth: I'm writing a series of shorts that evoke the family stories I've heard my entire life. They are not necessarily factual, but I think they connect with the mythical resonance I feel about them. They're imagined but not fiction. Is this ethical?

Happy Five Months!

Five months ago, this little guy was less than half his current body weight. And now he responds to his name, sits up, rolls over, and eats from a spoon!

If he wasn't blowing bubbles at me I might not believe it.

My Sister Rocks

My sister has been coming down to "visit" me during the last few weeks; actually she and her baby play with Levi while I work on my thesis. Levi and his cousin are only 5 weeks apart--lucky them!

A Difficult Decision

We're having our family picture taken tomorrow and I can't decide if Levi should just wear jeans or if he should do overalls. Help?

One Reason I Wake Up (Cheerfully) Every Day

I'm not teaching next semester for various reasons; I'm heartbroken. I feel like I'm leaving something sacred before I fully understand its holiness and potential.

Yesterday as I looked at my students slumped over their computers, wishing the day, the semester, their time in college was over I teared up and had to turn back to the whiteboard and pretend that everything is fine and that I don't care and I won't miss it. But I will.

I have to remind myself that this is the perfect note to end on. I love my students; this class is almost dreamy, and I've been teaching my own invention. Gratifyingly, it has gone very very well.

I would do a few things differently: I would start with a small essay that I don't grade. Then we would work on the analysis and spend far less time on it (three weeks, max). Then we would have library days and the ruminative essay--before they're burnt out and before they can cop out of the short essay. Give them the big one while they still have energy left. The last major assignment, before the portfolio, would be the short essay--then they can have fun and incorporate more research and have a little better grasp on the essay itself. Why do I harp on these things?

Not teaching is better for my family (which is why I'm doing it) and my sanity (which is an added bonus). I want to believe I can do everything, but it seems my limitations close in daily. Plus, if my health continues in the direction it has been, I don't know that I'll be doing much at all. Maybe relaxing (okay, I'll still have two classes, the reading series, and my thesis defense--plus real life: Wesley, Levi, and moving to wherever we go to grad school--pray for Boston and MIT friends!) isn't a good idea in that context.

Can you get an immunization for hyper-emotionality?

If anyone asks, I'm fine. Thanks.

Some Appreciation and Hope

"The root meaning of the word family is household, a gathering of people who take shelter together. No matter how troubled our households, we're going to keep on taking shelter together becuase we need one another..." Scott Russell Sanders, Hunting for Hope

This is not a normal post. Hunting for Hope is lovely, a balm of Gilead, though.

For the last seven weeks, my ward has been bringing dinner to a woman in our ward. Every night. Two more weeks to go. She crushed a joint in her foot, is on a walker, and needs extra help right now. Since I'm the compassionate service leader I've had the chance to talk with her often, coordinate meals, and bring meals when things fall through. On top of this, we've had other emergencies, surgeries, crises. On average, my Relief Society has brought in three meals a night to someone in the last two weeks, given rides, babysat, and zillions of other unseen, unreported, loving acts. I cringe a little every time I need to call another person to ask for more service--but no one hesitates. They say, "I'll make it work" and "Thank you for this opportunity" and I'm humbled wondering if I have such faith and gratitude and cheerfulness. Too often I feel overwhelmed by lists and urgencies, but they show me that love and compassion is just part of living. They teach me what it is to be followers of Christ, to be family, to shelter together even when there is so much smoke in the cave you can't see each other, even when our own problems reek, even when we just need a little air--we're family.

Open Mouthed and Wondering

I've been thinking about (missing) my dad today. And how Levi sometimes looks like him and I think, "How did Corrie get in there?" This (above) is not an expression I've seen from my father.

While very few things compare to scripture for me, every now and then I need a silly book. Yes, silly. Not poorly written, but strictly for fun. So I just listened to Shannon Hale's Austenland and giggled. Levi, poor kid, endured to the end. He liked the voice better than the reader of Candy Freak (which has interesting research, but the author is annoying and frankly, not even worth blogging about). Levi just awoke from his lengthy 20-minute nap and I'm remembering all the other things I should be doing because I recognize that this blog is mostly self-promotion and that thought makes me uncomfortable. Shannon Hale is enjoyable and recommendable.

Yesterday I shoved all the unrevised pieces I'm considering for my thesis and came out with a 100 page document. Crappy. Unpolished. Disconnected. But 100 pages. Perhaps I'll be able to pull this off by December as planned.

In other news, my essay "Full Stop," (previously known as "Period!") will be published in the next issue of Tusculum Review. Found out last week, and yes, I'm a bit giddy. I'll probably (unfortunately--check out these adverbs, will ya?--) get over this soon. But I am pleased. Wesley is narrowing our grad school options. We're down to 8 and need to go down two or three more since each application is about $90. I'm so excited to go (anywhere) with him; I do worry about leaving my writing friends, my workshop buddies, my essay posse. Who will tell me when I inadvertently make sexual comments, or when I should keep working on something, or when I really should just ditch an idea.

And, after Conference and a series of 3 a.m. revelation periods, I may be taking up poetry and even Emily Dickinson again.

Some moments you can roll over on your own, and some moments you just don't want to...

Welcome Autumn

"...as leaves // preserve the tree by learning / to relinquish it." --Linda Gregorson, "Elegant"

It is the first official day of autumn. Sunlight glows through the chill. My neighbor boys scamper around our house in jackets and loud voices. Buses heave with the onslaught of school, responsibility, and the distant idea of holiday. Sharpened #2 pencils all around. Levi wears long sleeves and footies. He stares at his feet and grabs his bib. He rolls over and passes me a shocked expression, particularly when I shriek in delight. Levi is my little leaf--strange that we are preserved by our posterity, and yet in a few generations my posterity may only have a vague memory of me. Will I still be "preserved"?

Autumn is my favorite season. I wish I could live in a perpetual autumn. It even smells like poetry.

In October, I am allowed all the ice cream I want to celebrate the sweet reality of autumn. Last night we made anniversary cookies (so named since my parents served them at their wedding reception and Mom makes them every August 22. I've decided to glom onto the tradition since I made hundreds and hundreds of them for our casual gathering. A bit late to mark our two years, but why not start now?). Wes frosted the wafers as I bathed Levi. The little bug gazed contentedly at us. He doesn't notice the mold. He doesn't care about the crammed space. Windows surprise him. Despite my inclination to be continually unsatisfied, I looked at my two men and thought, "Can it really be any better than this?" Perhaps autumn will tell.

For the last month or so I've been thinking about Jonah. I used to think he was silly for trying to run away from God and his calling. Starting to believe his instinct is understandable. He knew he could not escape, but he knew he could choose his own path, and perhaps he wanted to see how long he could delay what he knew was right. Procrastination? Righteous resistance? Mere pride and short sightedness? I don't like arguing with God; it's much worse than being digested alive. There are days I wish I could dwell in the belly of a whale, when I say please please swallow me. But I don't think I need to trace the intestinal tract of a sea monster or be spewed upon the land I deserted to be grateful for each breath, grateful that guidance comes my way.

Welcome Autumn. I'll sing the psalms with you.

I love Joni Tevis

"What I Want
To know what it means to live a biblical life, uncloistered every day. This is my book of new ritual, of learning to live a prophetic life in conjunction with another....My practice is observation. How do relationships illuminate?" --Joni Tevis, "A Field Guide to Iridescence and Memory"

Two and a half weeks ago while searching for books linked to Ander Monson's Neck Deep and Other Predicaments I discovered Joni Tevis. Sadly, I'd never heard of her before. Joyfully, I found her! And now I share the glory with you.

The Wet Collection was published in 2007. This is the first essay collection that the subcategory of "lyric" doesn't annoy me. She doesn't write meaningless, annoying sentences! Her writing is not obscure or needlessly "experimental" (please excuse the scorn, I've been frustrated, I'm sure they are nice people). Tevis writes crisply. Her images border between song and dream. Her lucid thought process on the page invites you to ruminate with her. She writes honestly.

I think she's changed my life. Really.

A door opened as I read her work. (A cyclone, actually--but how does it open and yet not blur--?) Essays are the literature of thought. Revised, artful thought. Since I live in LaLa Land 70% of the time, many of my thoughts linger there. The Wet Collection allows the imagination to spin new yarns--the hypotheses and conjectures are included as essays because (duh! moment here) they are part of how she thinks. Hurray! Bring on LaLa Land and its provinces.

I don't think I've felt this liberated about my writing since I came to college four and a half years ago. Hallelujah. Praise the angel Joni.

Read her book--refreshing and rejuvenating, and not just for those in a writing slump.

Spotlighting My Students

In class last night my students decided that they want our blog to go public. They want the world to comment on their work. Check it out: www.ruminationresearchwriting.blogspot.com

Cheerful Duties

"There is no duty we so much underrate as the duty of being happy." --Robert Luis Stevenson, "An Apology for Idlers"

Like pretty much everything in my life, I've made a goal of happiness. (Yes, there have been years when "smile" opened and closed the to-do list). Rays of sunshine add warmth and light even when they are fleeting. Walking to campus in the winter during my first year at BYU I thought I would freeze to death. I slept in my down filled coat. Occasionally, though, the sun glinted on the snow and I would dash out to meet it suddenly filled with hope. I never felt completely deserted with faith in the sun.

We are supposed to be the light of the world. Yesterday I was a dark cloud with too much rain. Levi didn't know what to do with me. Today I've been cloudy with a chance of rain. Regardless of the temperature or season, I'd like to be sunny.

Stevenson reflects on how happiness and pleasure multiply. When you see a happy person, your happiness increases. Thus, he argues, we all have a duty to be happy and increase the joy in the world. Is that possible? I like to think that it is.

Most of my spiritual moments manifest themselves through streams of happiness. If it is our duty to be happy, is it God's as well?

Is part of being the savory salt spreading a feeling of well-being and possibility? Can hope thrive through darkness if it knows there is a light somewhere?

Perhaps I am not capable of being the sun (frankly, no--only the Son can do that) but I'd like to be a lamp or candle. On a generator. One that doesn't melt or flicker out when you most need it. Even when I'm frazzled and unorganized and frustrated, I'd like to grant a little flame existence.

If we "are the light of the world" don't we all have to reflect each other?

Three Months

I've been watching the clock all day. Three months ago I lay in a hospital bed, giddy with an epidural, grateful for heartbeats, and that a doctor I liked was still on call. Three months ago Levi was still Charles Lamb. I was large as a barge. We didn't know his laugh. We didn't know his voice. We didn't know who he was--but we knew he moved and lived and we loved him. Three months ago we weren't quite parents. And today we're still figuring it out.

Eight years ago as a freshman in high school I watched the World Trade Center collapse on repeat. I saw planes crash. I saw people scream. I felt the smoke covering our nation; more I felt the hazy confusion of mortality. What tragedies--personal, local, national, global--await my little boy? What memories will scar into his body, will he remember the shirt he wore when some event occurs? What sacrifices will he make.

Three months into our miracle, and more questions present themselves. I watch while he sleeps. Today he laughed so hard in sleep that he woke up. Sometimes he wakes up wailing. What does he dream? Can he remember his past? Or does he simply reflect the future filled with its sorrows and joys?

Inquiry

Alexander Smith writes that all you need to be an essayist is the ability to meditate on "fortune, mutability, and death." In short, ruminate on life here and there.

Sometimes I get tired of thinking nonstop about my state of being. Currently: wife- and motherhood. I wonder if people think Will she ever stop talking? We've heard it all before! But off I go anyway on my great fortune, the never ending mutability, and the inevitability of death. People change more than situations. We say we don't want change--moving, new jobs, new friends, etc.--but the reality of it is that most of the time we change and the situation is the same and you (we/I) ask How is it possible that no one else realizes that everything is different? Oh. Just me.

School started this week: class, teaching, thesis. Switch that--thesis, teaching, class...and life, too. I worry I won't have enough students and my pay or my class will be cut. (Few want to take a class from 5-6:30 p.m. even if it is only twice a week and totally awesome). I worry about doing my thesis well. Sure, I can scribble out crap--but I want a lot more than crap. I've determined, as of spiritual experiences yesterday, to write poetry again and (try to) not care about how terrible it is. The whole writing for joy thing. I believe that anyone can write well if they enjoy it; my goal is to teach my students to enjoy inquiry.

Inquiry is a word I spaced until Wednesday night after teaching. I'd been searching for it all week. The essay is a mode of inquiry. They don't get it. Yet.

But then there's real life. Staring at Levi, changing diapers, asking if his hand really does taste better than pretty much anything (sure sounds like it). Editing with the boy on my lap is a near impossibility. Let's face it--writing must go beyond the first draft. Real life this week also includes taking meals to people, lining up meals for others, talking with Wes, homework, exercise, waking up at 4 a.m. most days then accidentally sleeping in until 6 a.m. on others. Real life speeds up and real life is mutability. I think that is part of fortune and death. And inquiry. Add that.

Yes, the First Day of School Thrills Me

A Conversation with Levi

The Sadness that Follows Eager Reading

I devour books. It's true. And when I've finally finished my favorites, I feel slightly melancholy. Like I've left friends for good. The joy of books deepens as you reread them (but I can only do this with the best; an unfortunate habit), but you can never replicate the experience of savoring a book for the first time. Thoroughly basking in the details and uncertainty--that only happens on the initial interaction with a text.

I just closed the cover of Les Miserables. I've been reading it on and off for almost a month; but I wanted to just sit down and read through the days until I had memorized each word as I compared translations. (Note to translators: yes, the original language will probably be superior, but still attempt to translate the verse included: otherwise you aggravate the reader. Thank goodness for the multiple translations on my desk.) I loved Jean Valjean even more than anticipated. I giggled at M. Gillenormand. I groaned over the Thendardiers. I balked at Marius and Cosette. I mourned for little Gavroche. I concluded that I would like to have lunch with Victor Hugo. What fiction writer can drench his prose with so many asides--to the extent of calling one section "A Parenthetical" and going off on the parallel of convents and the galleys? Again, great texts convince me that genre is not the medium but a categorical status that means nothing. Great texts, regardless of form, are lasting and resonate as true. There is my abstract answer to the question of what determines literature. Lasting + True.

Some lines:

"But, by wishing to sit down, we may stop the progress even of the human race" (717).

"What love begins can be finished only by God.
....
What a gloomy thing, not to know the address of one's soul!" (808).

"The true division of humanity is this: the luminous and the dark.
To diminish the number of the dark, to increase the number of the luminous, behold the aim. This is why we cry: education, knowledge! to learn is to read is to kindle a fire; every syllable spelled sparkles.
But he who says light does not necessarily say joy. There is suffering in the light; in excess it burns. Flame is hostile to the wing. To burn and yet to fly, this is the miracle of genius" (854).

"A people, like a star, has the right of eclipse. And all is well, provided the light return and the eclipse do not degenerate into night. Dawn and resurrection are synonyms" (1073).

And thus, a life goal to read Les Miserables was even more enjoyable than anticipated.

Afternoon

Everyday I aim to at least make the bed and wash the dishes. Then I've done something. The problem is that I also have back-of-the-brain demands, things that are givens--I don't have to write them on a list because they must be done for my sanity. Scripture study. Writing. Working out. Going on our daily walk. Maintaining clean floors and a clean toilet. These things do not always happen anymore (or they don't happen consistently or efficiently) and I'm learning that that's okay. I'm a list budgeter. I like to write down more to do than should be humanly possible then challenge human limitations. Gives me a rush, like leaving the grocery store with everything we need for the week and money left over.

Silly: I know.

Christine told me the week Levi was born that if all I "get done" is loving, feeding, and changing the baby then I'm doing everything that needs to be done. Later that week I read an article in the Ensign about a woman who has cut her list down to one or two urgent items a day so that she can be flexible with herself and her children. My attempts at doing that have been strained, but I'm trying. My dad and I agree that being tired never really ends. It just grows--perhaps, though, we add to it sometimes.

In two weeks from today I'll be at the annual teacher training, tying the last bits of my class together. Summer is officially ending; as usual, I'm buzzed about school but this year I feel a little melancholy. The beginning of school marks the close of my slow warm months learning to be a mother. Never again will I battle the anxiety of a first time birth, waiting for labor to begin each day, then finally embracing my first baby and memorizing all his parts without any other demands. For our next baby I'll have a toddler (ish), we'll be farther from family (most likely), and forcing time to allow me to write will be more difficult. I don't expect much quiet or slow moments for the next...oh...forty years. Which is great, I welcome those forty years. I have loved these sweet slow months, though.

Levi snores in his sleep. Our kitchen faucet that has been running constantly for a week (the plumber contracted for our rented basement is on vacation until Monday) trickles like a fountain. Thunder brews outside. I gaze at the dear little bubbles forming around my son's lips and wonder how two months stretched and filled him. The leaves on our vine shift colors. Life changes millisecond by millisecond. How did I not notice that before? Is it possible to cherish each breath forever?

Just Turn Your Head

Sorry the video is sideways.

A big adventure!

Levi is a state traveler. In the last two weeks we drove to Preston, Lava, Kuna, Seattle (and around), back to Kuna, back to Provo. Plus he survived the car breaking down twice in 105 degree weather! His giggles helped this mom keep perspective. Next week we're going to Paradise, Utah for more fun. I'm daily grateful that his temperment usually mirrors his dad! We are a very blessed trio; I don't deserve it, but we'll keep trying.

School starts the last day of August. I'm excited to teach again and to workshop more, but where did this summer go? How is my baby boy almost two months old?

Always looking for good writing. If you have a favorite book or author, please share.

While the boy sleeps...Les Mis and LibraVox

This is what I'm doing right now. Yes. My life rocks.

We've been listening to Victor Hugo's Les Miserables from LibriVox.org. Unfortunately, I didn't realize that only the first two books were recorded and currently available online. Three more to go! And I'm completely hooked. In my dream world, I would write like Victor Hugo, Marilynne Robinson, and Kimberly Johnson blended. Who can I read that writes mostly about family? (I'm up for suggestions) I don't have much to argue in my writing--mostly I celebrate.

Les Miserables is gorgeous. I love it. Oh so much. Since I was about ten I've been meaning to read it--one of those life goal things I hoped to get to before 30, so here we are. My family went to the play and listened to the music a lot while growing up; yes, I pretended to be Cosette, then I pretended to be Eponine (who may have been less beautiful, but was more dramatic and had better songs). And I love Jean Valjean and Marius. I love Hugo's thought process through the novel: not linear, not circular, something else--is this cultural or otherwise? How do you choose a translation? (I currently have three on my desk plus the one I've been listening to. Isabel Florence Hapgood did a nice job. How will she compare to Charles Wilbur?) The book examines a life in context of humanity--so multiple lives intertwining. Much of it feels essayistic; awesome. The poetic style engages, the commentary interests, and the story carries me through.

The first time I realized the book existed was when my uncle stayed at our house in his early twenties reading it. I remember him sitting next to our piano in a blue wingbacked chair completely absorbed. Peaceful. And I thought, "That's how I want to spend my life," with words, with books, with my family around. This is the uncle that I supposedly look like and who encouraged me to write and who I unabashedly adored in childhood. I adore them all now, but amazing how somone's belief in you can inspire such affection and veneration.

A note on LibriVox.org. Wow. Have I written about how awesome it is? Public domain books on the internet because of willing volunteers. Support it. Love it. Listen.

Stanley Kunitz

was one of America's Poet Laureates. I discovered him by accident almost four years ago when living with my aunt in a dreamworld where poets should be randomly discovered. I love his poetry, but his prose captures me--lyrical, but straightforward, concise, beautiful. I reread his introduction over and over again. Last winter I read his reflections of a garden and pretty much floated around the universe because of it. Kunitz's writing makes me want to write: a very comforting fact.

I finished The Collected Poems today; it includes work written from the 1920s to 1995 and exhibits a lifetime of thought. This collection isn't organized into an argument. The poems don't necessarily build on each other (these are collected and selected!). Although I prefer collections with an overall development, I appreciated that not everything requires one. Gives some peace when I consider my thesis...

Question: Why is it that people are so drawn to the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice? Especially male poets passing their prime? I love the interpretations; yet I've read so many of them that I wonder if creating your own is part of entering and leaving the world (of writing).

Here's one reason I adore Stanley Kunitz (from his introductory "Reflections"): "Years ago I came to the realization that the most poignant of all lyric tensions stems from the awareness that we are living and dying at once. To embrace such knowledge and yet to remain compassionate and whole--that is the consummation of the endeavor of art....To put it simply, conservation of energy is the function of form....I dream of an art so transparent that you can look through it and see the world."

Yes, I believe.

Levi is a month old!

Aunt Megan

Great Grandparents Cole

Great Grandmas Keller and Buttars

Great Grandpa Keller

Great Grandma Cole

Discipleship

"Resilience is part of repentance, showing we have faith to try again...Resilience is really an affirmation of our true identities as spirit sons and daughters of God. We need not be permanently put down, because we can be "lifted up" by applying Christ's atonement (Alma 36:3). The "infinite atonement" thus can apply to our finite failures (Alma 34:12)." --Neal A. Maxwell, The Promise of Discipleship

I love Neal A. Maxwell; I love him so much that we briefly considered the name "Maxwell" for our baby Charles (now Levi). The strength of his work is definitely in his ideas and analogies. The writing itself is clear and fine, but let's face it he's no Marilynne Robinson and that's not his intention, either. (He may use as many exclamation points as commas...which would make listening to him read his work more enjoyable). The chapters in The Promise of Discipleship connect but could be read individually. Search these topics: long-suffering, the Holy Ghost, paradise/prison, mortal purpose, repentance, return. All of this could probably enter the broad category of restoration that Alma discusses--our restoration to God the Father in celestial glory as well as the restoration of God's truth to us on earth. An interesting cycle I still don't comprehend.

I like the thought that we must be divinely determined to repent and continue forward. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I'm human and I don't have to feel guilty about that reality: move forward. To believe that mortality is actually the smallest portion of our existence requires a lot of faith. My faith in this concept fluctuates between desire-to-believe and faith. Eternal perspective is not easy for me to maintain, unfortunately. There is so much I'd like to know, to remember. Maxwell points out that people have individualized experiences for their development on earth in part because we all came here with different "baggage": we're all on different planes of progression. One might need to learn more patience, while another has patience but needs to be tried with humility. What did I bring with me? A lot of love and resistance to use it. Overactive imagination. Mostly a desire to learn.

When I was younger (okay, and now too) I would often sit in a frenzy of thought trying to figure out what I didn't know and how I could learn. The scriptures promise that the righteous will have the mysteries of God unfolded to them, that the Spirit will enlighten and enlarge the understanding--but when? How? What is it? How much am I really missing? (This is not a question I actually want answered, I don't think I could handle the discouragement in this mortal state. And yes, I am one of those lacking in patience. Levi assures me he will help me in this area.) What questions should I ask? What do I need to know now? What precept upon precept should I follow?

I crave discipleship and fear my own failure. Thus, resilience resilience resilience.

It's been a while...

Although it looks like all I do is take pictures, Levi and I do get out. We go on walks, read books, listen to books on tape, make dinner, clean the house, talk about the wide world, watch the baby quail attack our window with glee.

Since my last real post, we've read:
Truman Madsen's The Life and Teachings of the Prophet Joseph--a beautiful set of lectures. I had never really considered Joseph Smith to be a window into the reality of the atonement before. Because he was the prophet of the restoration his work does enable others to know Christ more. I believe in prophets. That doesn't sound like a monumental statement; I've believed in prophets for most of my life and I struggled for years to know about the truth of Joseph Smith's mission specifically (that story later perhaps). I believe in modern day prophets: not just people with visions or a neighbor who calls himself a prophet, but those particularly called of God to lead His children back into His outstretched arms. I think you have to find out for yourself if a person is a prophet through prayer--I think we have a responsibility to do so, actually. (On a less pious note: I believe Moses and I would have been great friends, but Abraham and I probably would have kept our relationship distanced). In order to be a prophet your life and teachings must match, but prophets are still just mortals. Imperfect humans. Isn't that amazing?

Kevin Hinckley's Burying Our Swords--okay, I wouldn't recommend this one because it is pretty surface level and agenda driven and lacks literary quality (yes, the awful sentences distracted me! I felt bad for their construction) but it isn't terrible. Moral of the book: to improve your situation and relationships, start with yourself and the scriptures. A good moral. This was a quick read, though, and Levi likes to listen to me even at 2 a.m. (that's our scripture time, though--not novels. Scripture and poetry and night, everything else during the day).

Bram Stoker's Dracula--Oh! This is fun. Wesley and I both listened to it from librivox.org (Check out LibriVox--audio books in the public domain, I'm considering volunteering). The "traditional" interpretation of Dracula does not follow the book. The book is significantly better (although, I admit, some of the sentences could use some work. The story is good enough to carry it, though). I wonder how often such works are misinterpreted. We think we know what something is about, then we finally look into it ourselves and bam! We've been wrong the entire time. Dracula is not a horror novel as much as an adventure taken from multiple points of view. Wesley and I enjoyed talking about it chapter by chapter. Good discussions if nothing else. Read it if you're looking for an enjoyable, light, classic read.

Jon Meacham's American Gospel: God, the Founding Fathers, and teh Making of a Nation--Lovely piece. The more I learn about Washington the more I like him. The more I learn about Jefferson the more uncomfortable I am. Brilliant people needed to come together in order to create this nation. They were geniuses in their own ways. They had their weaknesses and preferences. But at the core Washington was fundamentally good, and Jefferson...confused? I'm not sure. Hypocrisy weighs on me. I doubt anyone else could have written the Declaration of Independence--our country needed Jefferson and needs his legacy still. I think, though that Abraham and I would have been closer friends than this founding father. An interesting aspect of this book is the concept of a public "gospel" or the spiritual foundation in which our pluralistic society trusts (most of the time). The making of a nation is fundamentally spiritual: not something I'd really considered before.

Otherwise, I've been examining Levi's knuckles. They stretch and bend. The wrinkles double up on each other. They arch out too much like mine. I love his knuckles. Will the time come when I forget how much I love his knuckles because we're doing other things? Because I'm not holding him close constantly, memorizing his parts, exclaming over his growth? What do my parents think when they look at my knuckles? Do they remember the changes in me or feel the blossoming love that gasps, "I couldn't have made this beautiful person!" Will I continue to marvel at his joints and hinges as he develops and fills them with mud, experience, and large life?

Musical Ear: looks like the bass clef!

Happy Little Dude

Oh! I love his feeties!

My Handsome Men

Sprawling Boy

Long Toes for Climbing

Looks Good in Green

Almost Naked!

Sweet Sleeper

With Grandma and Grandpa

Aunt Kathy and Levi

Tired Dad