Chance for Flight

has a chance /
doesn't want to stay here /
sees an opening in the sky /
dives forward /
is afraid /
pulls back /
falls /
can't stand /

can't fly /

must move /
must climb again /
there is a chance /
an opportunity /

lunges forward /
only to fall /

cannot lay here /
must not stay /
much too vulnerable /
will not stay /

stands on feet /
breaths in /
looks up at hill /

so much distance /
for what /
don't know /
doesn't matter /
better than staying here /

places foot in front of foot /
decides to continue /
finds it hard to /
hates trying /
doesn't know what's at the top /

what if it's the same /
will it be worth it /
hard to tell /
it's so far /
but staying here is /

doesn't finish thought /
can't finish thought /
can't process /
won't process /

tear falls down /
wants to stop /

it's too hard /
is the struggle is worth it /

just one foot /
in front of the other foot /
just one more /
and one more /

looks up from grass /
stops moving /
is at the top /

stares at sky /
watches clouds /
breaths in /
cries openly /

one chance /
one last try /
maybe it's what they said /
maybe it will be worth it /
the journey might be worth it /

tries again /
jumps /

YSA Centennial Dance Performance

I broke my car. Metaphorically. Futuristically.

...sigh...

Dean sat down today, and turned on his computer so he could talk to his son. They used Skype. I walked by the room, and heard talking and laughing. How beautiful, I thought. I was jealous of him. Jealous because he keeps his car in good condition.

I don't keep my car in good working order. When it breaks down, I take it to the shop. Because I need a means of transportation. Dean looks after his car, works on maintenance, cracks, oil, windshield repair... He hardly ever needs to take his car into the shop. It hardly ever breaks down.

Do you see what I'm saying? Dean looks after his car, like he looks after relationships. He doesn't wait until they break down before he fixes them, he gets on his computer, and talks to people he's not close enough to talk to in person! He gets out the phone and has real communications with people! I, on the other hand wait until my car has broken down before I fix it. If that! I'll fix it if I really really need it! If I don't need my car, I won't fix it! What a selfish disaster I am!

I don't change the oil in my car!

...sigh...

I'm taking a moment to analyze myself. It doesn't seem to be helping my mood. The relationships around me flounder. The relationships not around me (ie: out of circle of friends) are less than floundering, but rather non-existant. I just don't talk to people. I don't change the oil in my car.

Ugh. Maybe this will help. I'll be taking on the challenge of the computer hiatus. I shan't be on for the next two weeks, in hopes that something good will come of it. Maybe I'll be forced to talk to REAL people, instead of facebook, fake people. Maybe I'll have to square with myself and actually send letters.

Goodbye cruel world. Was nice knowing you.

...sigh...

"Ordinary Boring Molecule of Water"

Ha! I think this is my favorite Calvin and Hobbes comic to date. hahahahahahahaha....!!

Excuse me while I make my exit from learning how 'normal' people behave. I think I would rather be an abnormal individual, than a normal carbon copy of the next guy over.

Fulghum

My favorite author, is Robert Fulghum. I've read good books, (lots of them) but it's always been unimpressive as the Author gets high on themselves and has a name that's recognizable. They lose touch with that part of them that first begged them to write. They lose the reason they started. And yes, they are skilled, and yes, often they continue printing good messages or great story lines... But few authors have that spark for writing that they had when they began.

And though I couldn't pin down what by definition that 'spark' is made of, I know it's there. Call it what you will, and label me crazy, there's a spark of inspiration that almost draws through the words on the page, the eyes of the author themselves, alive and excited.

I find that Robert Fulghum has continued this spark. How ever it is that he has done it, he stands out in my mind. Even though sometimes vulgar, or off topic, he connects his soul to the words, and the words to the reader.

"I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge-
That myth is more potent than history.
I believe that dreams are more powerful than facts-
That hope always triumphs over experience-
That laughter is the only cure for grief.
And I believe that love is stronger than death."

Robert Fulghum

Amen.

PS... I have a site for awesome quotes. Robert Fulghum has a few among them.

Loving By Letting Go

To Let Go does not mean I stop caring for you.
      It means a new form of trying is to let you be.
To Let Go does not mean I abandon you,
      It means I realize I can't control you.
To Let Go does not mean letting you take advantage,
      It means I allow you to learn through natural consequences.
To Let Go does not mean piloting alternatives for you,
      It means I hope you choose to affect your own destiny.

To Let Go is to admit powerlessness
      Which means the outcome is not in my hands.
To Let Go is not to change or blame you.
      It's to make the most of myself.
To Let Go is not to take care of your feelings,
      It's to care about how you feel.
To Let Go is not to fix or judge you,
      It's to support and accept you.

To Let Go does not mean I shelter you from truth,
      It means I offer you experience and growth.
To Let Go does not mean I regret the past,
      It means I grow and live for the future.
To Let Go does not mean I criticize or regulate you,
      It means letting us both become what we dream we can be.
To Let Go is to fear less and love more.

      To Let Go might be the only way to love.

Riddle Me This

Riddle me this:

How many blossoms unopened at best,
may land in the autumn, forever in rest.

Have they been let fall? What is it yet,
for the blossoms to fall, is it hope or regret?

So riddle me this.
Riddle me this:

What is to know, and less for to see,
if truth is obscure and barely your need?

For the words on the page, seem idle and weak,
but simplicity begs the truth that you seek.

So riddle me this.
Riddle me this:

I can't lift it up, as I can't change a view.
Impossible to steal, yet stolen from you.

Now ought I to try, not to refrain,
stealing the stolen back home again?

So riddle me this.
Riddle me this:

The chill of the winter, may shatter the road.
The heat of the summer may liquefy gold.

What is the virtue, of knowledge untold,
when hope chills the heat and warms winter cold?

So riddle me this.
Riddle me this:

Were the signs not enough, shown through the law,
of natural preference in a leaf with no flaw?

Or the beams of the sun, or wind now explained?
Yet interpret you will, away and ashamed.

So riddle me this.
Riddle me this:

Could the mouse do much better than the dragon to chase,
or the fish than the horse in winning a race?

Compare to the truth of fear versus faith,
how is the message, and how would it change?

So riddle me this.
Riddle me this:

Encased in the moment, forgotten in time;
was in fragments shattered, like forsaken signs.

Is there hope to recover, or sight to regain,
or neither an answer for nothing to feign.

Please riddle me these
Riddle me this,
I beg and I plead
you will not dismiss.
Riddle me, riddle me,
Riddle me this.

Sera Johnson © 2009

Superhero

I lean back in my chair, head cocked to the side, confident and full of myself; pretending I am a superhero. I lift one eye brow with a slight grin. 'I can do anything' I whisper to myself. 'Because I'm a freekin' superhero! And superheros have super powers.' I grin widely.

But then I glance back at the computer area in front of me; papers scattered about, bits of old projects left unfinished on top of the printer and left on and around stacks of CDs. Around my feet lay wires tangled with themselves from old and broken parts of who-really-knows-whats. I'm not really smiling anymore.

Among the heaps of junk and potentially useful items is a College catalog with course listings. I let out a sigh and sit back in my chair normally, snatching the book out from under a pile of old art work. I flip it open to some papers stuffed into the pages. Enrollment papers for the coming semester. 'I want to go to school', I tell myself, in a less than convincing voice. Barely audible. I stare at the book for a bit but then I toss it back onto the pile, and set to work on getting rid of some of the mess.

I shuffle through some papers lying on the desk. I look back at the computer screen, and see a face smiling out at me. It's the face of a baby. Amy. She's only a month old. Her little face smiles out of the computer screen, the rest of her body wrapped up warmly in the embrace of her father. His face smiling along side hers. I put down the papers and look at the picture on the screen. 'Hi Amy.' I say. My heart begins to ache a bit. It must be so comfortable there, in her father's arms. He's got a hold of her snug and tight. You can tell he's not going to let go of his little girl any time soon. How peaceful it looks to be a part of that picture. 'I want to be a mother', I begin to say, less audible than before.

I bookmark the page, and close the window. Why was that painful to look at? I decide to change rooms and I go get the papers I left with my church books. I begin leafing through and find the notes from church I took earlier this morning. Notes about being kinder to people, and about what faith really is, and about what separates hope from belief. There on the corner of one piece of paper is the scribbled words 'Note to self: Go on a mission'. There's so much that intrigues me about the gospel. I believe it. I want to share it with people. 'I want to go on a mission', I say. But am I too scared, I wonder?

I continue working on recording the notes in other places so that I can throw out all the bits of paper that have been collecting over a period of much-too-long. But I don't know how to throw some of them out. Some of them are pieces of art work, swirls and lines, shaded pictures mixed in with my notes. How do I throw those out? They aren't exactly masterpieces, but they aren't exactly transferable to some other place, and I still want to keep them. After a while, I stop. I go back to the computer chair by the window. I'm not interested in sorting papers anymore. I'll leave that for some other time. When I care more. Maybe I'm bored. Maybe I'm ADD. Then again, maybe I don't care if I'm ADD.

But, what do I care about? I wonder to myself. What do I want to do? I've got a job. I work at a daycare. I could keep working there. But for what? But I don't really want to work there anymore. Working there isn't what I want to be doing in a few months. Maybe it's because I am not dedicated, and I just don't want to do something I'm not enjoying, or maybe it's because having worked there has made me dislike children, and I think that is wrong. So I ask myself again, 'what do I want to do?'

'I want to start a business', I say, half wishing someone was listening so they could give me some sort of motivation. It would be amazing to change the world in some way through a business I created. The truth is, I want to begin changing the world through my efforts to help people. I want to help people all over the world. 'And I want to travel too'. I hear the words come out, but by the time they are out, my mind has already moved on. I want to travel, but what about all the other stuff I want to do? Do I have the guts? Do I know what's coming? Can I do any one of these things and not miss out on the rest?

I sigh. I lean back in my chair, and cock my head, looking out the window. 'I want to be a superhero', I say. This time I can barely muster up the words. 'Maybe then I'd have the guts to try something. Anything. Even if it was just finishing clearing up this messy room. I'd do something exciting. After all, I'd have super powers.'

But nothing changes. The leaves aren't even rustling in the wind. It's all the same. Same as when I looked out the window the first time. And I'm not a superhero. I don't have super powers. And I can't bend the rules.

I sigh again. I wish someone would push me in some direction. Then I wouldn't have to choose and come up with my own motivation. I'd just have to keep the momentum.

I get out of the chair, and begin cleaning the papers off the desk. Frustrated, and weary I trudge on, hoping somewhere in the mix and confusion of it all, someone will save me from the fate of the unfortunate soul, born as a regular. Not a superhero... Not even a sidekick... Not super at all.

Maybe silence will carry the words
Because I know speaking them

Would ruin them

Maybe there are blueprints for a bridge
That could be built to mend hearts

Further apart

Maybe there is time to learn to run
Fast enough that pain won't catch up

Even fade away

Maybe there is simply nothing
More to be said
Maybe distant hearts aren't
Meant to mend
And maybe pain is nothing
In a retrospective end.

Everything means Nothing

I can’t think of a proper introduction. I tried using an empty bowl of chili but that didn’t work. So be prepared to just jump into hard core philosophy. 1, 2, 3, go!

This world that we live in is full of physical objects, obeying the scientific laws that command the world into order. In this world, we find only a series of facts, certain physical attributes, actions preformed or emotions experienced. There are atoms that make up every object you see. There is energy or potential energy in everything you see. The world is full of facts.

But this next sentence is the sentence that means everything. Everything means nothing.

Let me emphasize that. Every single thing in this world means exactly NOTHING. Absolutely, thoroughly NOTHING at all. The chair you sit on, the table you eat at, the body you use, the emotions you feel, the food you eat all mean nothing. There is nothing in this world that holds any meaning what so ever…

…UNTIL you believe in it. That is, until you give it a name, a reason, a history or choose how you will respond to it, there is no meaning what so ever in the world.

There is meaning only in our beliefs.

The sunset it just a bunch of chemicals in the atmosphere, and light rays bouncing through from the sun’s chemical reactions. It is fact, and it is meaningless until a human lets the sunset into their personal world, and believes it is something of worth. Sunsets are beautiful, vibrant, inspiring, amazing. But sunsets mean nothing at all if you don’t believe in them.

If someone says “I love you”, the sounds mean nothing at all. Sounds emitted through the use of a human voice box which allows sounds to form and travel through the air which is in turn carried to another person’s ear. But as soon as those sounds are interpreted, given a name, a reason, a history… as soon as those words are believed… Those words can mean the world. I love you. Is there power in those words? Absolutely. That is my belief.

It is our beliefs that shape our individual worlds.

The truth is, that the world is exactly what you say it is. There is no getting around this. You can’t escape believing. It happens as naturally as choosing one thing over another. It happens, and even if you try to avoid it, that in and of itself is a belief. And the world shall be shaped just like that.

Partake in the Magic

I am taking a childcare course online, and during one of the activities, I came across this poem, which I would like to share.

A Child’s Mind

Eyes open wide
In wonderment
The children pressed against
The classroom window
I told them to sit down

John said
But Miss! A star has fallen in our field
I saw no star
Till bending down to child height
There, in the grass
I glimpsed the dazzling light

A Star?
A piece of broken jam-jar
Catching the rays of a low January sun.
Educationally, it would have been sound
To follow up with a lesson
On how the glass reflects the sunlight

I couldn’t
To forty children
Who had just seen a star

- Author Unknown


Can you place yourself here? I imagine the dilemma. Do I break this child's heart, or do I tell him the truth?

Do I explain the chemistry behind the beauty of a rainbow? Or do I respectfully hide the answer to a question that hasn't been asked, as to why flowers grow to be so stunning?

Doesn't it steal away the magic?

On certain nights, I look up at the sky, and on special evenings, the stars transform, they are no longer burning balls of gas millions of miles away, but beacons of truth, silent and refined, near singing with their majesty. So simple a view, but so powerful a message. So how would it seem right to break the heart of a child who believes in something so beautiful as a star having fallen in a field? The child sees something that for that one moment, while looking out onto a barren field, is truth because they believe it.

I imagine that if I were that child, I would wander outside after class and scoop up that jar, and take it home, to show to all who would allow themselves to partake in the magic, that this was a fallen star.

But maybe once I got out to the field, and saw the jar for what it was, I would recognize it, and only need one look before saying 'Oh... It's just a jar.'

But even then... Even after having thought that a star had fallen, to be disappointed by finding that it was just a cup of class glass out in the middle of a field, I would esteem it as magic. I would know that it was just a plain and simple jar, ugly up close, and seemingly unimportant, and yet it would be magic to me. Because I know that it was just this simple bit of glass glimpsed from the classroom window that had made such stunning beauty as to catch the gaze of the entire classroom. Because of the beauty of the shimmer, the brightness of design, and the truth of the light, I would scoop it up anyway.

I would take it home, and though I would not parade it as a star, I would showcase it as a miracle. I would show all who would allow themselves to partake in the magic, that this simple object was all it took to steal my breath away and show me something miraculous.

From small, simple and ugly things, miracles are born if we only allow ourselves to partake in the magic.

My Father's Footsteps

Not long ago, and yet what seems ages for me, lived a man with a million dreams. Dreams to fly a plane, to make lots of money, to be an artist and to be someone his father would be proud of. These are only some of his dreams. This man was like Edison. Trying one thing, then another and then another until finally: light!

I really wish I could be like my father. Because although he had a million unrealized dreams, many became true. Most did not but his short life encased many, many beautiful experiences that I am not even capable at this point of making into realities. He has been to Europe, Japan, and Australia. He has flown his own plane, sky dived 100 times and biked across Canada. And so much more.

Here I sit next to my computer, typing out in words something so deep I feel as though I were about to split apart. It's not about the traveling or the excitement and rush of diving from a plane... it's about looking life straight on and proclaiming "Come on! I dare you!"

I can't do it. I never could. There is something broken in me that won't let me be reckless or bold. It won't let me love or hold onto joy. Any joy I do feel is held for less than two seconds at most. I can't cry either. And because of this, I cannot dream.

Not long ago, and yet what seems ages for me, lived a man with a million dreams.

I wish I did.

Webs of Power

I look up and see my own reflection in a borrowed mirror. The reflection is not smiling. The thought passes through my consciousness that my feelings at this moment, and all my accumulated thoughts are insignificant. There are billions of other people on this Earth at this precise moment, many of them staring at their own reflection, and all with complicated emotions. All of them insignificant.

But as I stare at myself, a new perspective shifts into view as though I were taking off a blindfold. It's a simple thought, but it changes everything. I begin to smile at my reflection. For the revelation I have just discovered will affect everyone around me. And the revelation is this: Everything I do affects those around me; they in turn affect everyone around them, and those affected affect others and it goes on until I have managed to affect the entire world. Day after day I unknowingly affect others, and unknowingly I consent to being affected by those around me.

As I look in the mirror, a thought of intricate webs, thorough connections and unseen paths of energy compel me to smile. If this is all it takes, why not give it a try?

What a strange new world of responsibility and freedom as I stare at my own reflection... because in the exact same way that my face reflects in this borrowed mirror, my smile may reflect in the eyes of those around me, and maybe we won't be so insignificant after all.

Language Barriers

I think I knew English a lot better when I was a kid. I may know more words now, but I don't use them as much. I remember randomly talking to people in the hallways and on the bus to and from school. I would look out the window and randomly comment on how green the weeds were today, and a conversation would start. There was always something to talk about whether it was why we didn't need to wear seat belts on a bus, or who ran the fastest in the track meet, or possibly what the meaning of life was. There was always an available topic at hand.

And yes, there were certain people I sat next to on a frequent basis, and so it was easier to talk to them because I knew them well, but when those seats were full, there was no problem sitting next to someone else and striking up a conversation. When I was elementary school age, I didn't filter my thoughts so much as I do now, based on what I think the other person thinks about what I say. Somehow my English must have been better back then because now I don't have a single thing to say.

There are bus rides and car rides, church pews and front lawns, side walks and rooftops, and in all these places I see people sitting, standing or walking and I turn away drawing a blank as to what to say first, and then I don't say a thing.

And then I find the real clincher at home. I get in and turn the computer on. I turn it on and log into facebook, because that's where everyone posts what they are up to. See, I don't have to ask anyone what they are up to, they just post it online. And if I see them in person I don't need to ask what they did last weekend, because I already know. They might not know that I know, but I do. And so there is one less topic conversation starters, because I already know all about last weekend. I saw the pictures.

And those people who have made the choice not to post their current activity online where all can see, well I don't see them anymore. I don't know what's going on in their life, and I don't ask because I'm busy being bombarded with all these other updates of other people's lives, so much that it's hard to care what so-and-so is up to. There's just no time.

I just used facebook, and used what little English I had left to communicate to the people who took the time to post pictures or status-messages online. And I saw less of people's faces, yet we pretended we were friends by chatting back and forth on the internet, without really getting into deep conversations because, well, deep conversations are reserved for face to face interactions.

I read on facebook what other people are doing, but we don't even chat anymore. I just post what I'm doing, and they post what they are doing, and we feel satisfied that we are socializing and hanging out. And then every once in a while we do more and actually chat, but it's rare and I don't know what to say.

I think that's what God feels like when he can see what we are doing, but we don't take the time to pray and tell him how we feel about what is going on in our lives. He sees the events, but he wants to hear it from us, to hear from our perspective what is going on in our lives. He wants to talk to us. I think I'm not very good at it. I think I need to improve my English.

Womanhood Rant Continued...

Not too long ago I posted a blog entry entitled: "Womanhood Rant". After reading my post, my adopted uncle Mark sent me an article that I thought some people would find interesting (Hawley, you commented on my rant so I thought you might like this second opinion... It's been here for a while stagnating). You can read the document here if you want.

In response to the article he sent, I wrote him an email that I would like to share:

Firstly, I am at peace with the issue of womanhood and content to sort it out myself, by saying this: Both man and woman are equal. It is more complicated than that though, so I will explain.

Both man and woman are equals; individuals and partakers of this challenge that we call life. Both genders have roles and the individuals strive to grow, develop, learn and teach. Both are trying to be the best they can be. People will be much less likely to confuse their personal worth with their roles, after the individuals are considered and presented in nonjudgmental ways, free of biases and understanding that it is ok to have feelings, needs, desires, successes and failures. We will be ready to accept ourselves for who we are, no strings attached, nor having this need to feel jealous of the other gender or feeling a need to take on the other's role. We will be ready to take the next step, which is to accept the responsibilities such as priesthood and the correct and worthy, authoritative use of it; and womanhood and the gift of nurturing, creating and moving lives. But that's after we see ourselves for WHO we are instead of WHAT we are... We are first individuals, and secondly, we have roles.

These people, whom I have been among, have become confused about who we are, and how to accept ourselves, first as individuals, because we confuse our worth with our roles, instead of understanding that the divine God chose to love us as we are, no matter what, and that because he loves us, he gave us these gifts of gender and roles.

If that idea were explained, then a lot of this confusion would disappear, but I also think it would be nearly impossible to explain this to someone. I mean how can I explain to someone that they have worth? They have to feel it. They have to discover it themselves. I've tried to explain to people how they have worth in and of themselves but they can't grasp it unless they feel it themselves. So how could I expect anyone to satisfy my desire for this explanation, when the explanation is wanting? There is no way I am aware of to explain a feeling to someone unless they have previously experienced that feeling.

The main confusion between genders is based on the confusing belief that roles and responsibilities are of higher priority than individual needs and worth.

We all make mistakes and we all learn to try.

Both man and woman are equal because we are all human.

Fifty-five dollars for what? Nothing.

Guess what! I have no criminal record. That's right. I sent in my $55 to the police station, so that they could go find out that I had done nothing wrong. How messed up is that?

And what's with everything in this world being represented on paper? Everything that a person is, everything that a person owns, can be found on pieces of paper. Paper to show that you were born, paper to show that you were baptized, paper to show what grades you got in school, paper to show you graduated the school system, papers to show what you bought at the store, papers to show that you are innocent, papers to show that you own property.

And they even have papers to show that you REALLY ARE dead! Not just pretending to be dead I suppose... maybe there's a lot of people out there who fake death... Dunno. Why else would they need a death certificate?

I think there's too much paper being passed around every day that represents items, time and people. It's rather like insanity. Why do we think that individuals are tied to these little things that sit in our wallet, with our pictures and big numbers on it? If this little card is stolen, there we go, down the drain. That's our IDs, and if they get taken, we're erased from reality. So what if the computers malfunction that recognize that little card and then we truly get erased from the system? That's all it would take... for our numbers to be accidentally deleted because of natural disasters, or some sort of machine malfunction that contains the files on the... on the... well where ever the big files go where police men take $55 from you and then spend a couple minutes looking on four databases to find out if you did anything wrong. The information goes somewhere, and that would really be unfortunate if numbers were misplaced or servers went down and thousands of people's lives essentially, went down the drain... like a blip.

I think our system is too reliant on numbers, statistics, and pieces of paper. What would the world be like if we took all that away, and actually had to go out and get to know the people in out neighborhood? Would it really be that much of an unsophisticated chaotic place? I don't think so.

And personally, I'd like my money back.

Change

Change is always inside of us, no matter how much we desperately want to curse, blame or give credit to our surroundings or environment.

A little while back I had a moment of different feelings that I have never felt before. It was so distinct. The feelings were simple. “There is such a change coming your way that you will take leaps where you took baby steps before.” And I didn’t know what to do because I was driving a vehicle at the time, and when something that direct and that blunt hits you that strongly, the first impulse is to stop, stare blankly, mouth agape and just sit in shock, but I can’t exactly do that while driving a car. Instead, I pressed the gas harder and stared wide-eyed ahead, a smile forming on my lips and no words to express. It was such a huge feeling of excitement that washed over me that I sped my vehicle WAY over the limit for quite a distance before I came to again and realized how much over the limit I was going.

And for a while I held the thought in the back of my head, and said nothing to anyone. I didn’t want to ruin the moment. Because maybe I had just dreamed it, maybe it was just the sunshine, maybe it was just my imagination. But here I am and over and over I am finding myself staring at a ladder that is leaning against the very walls that not long ago I stared at and saw as obstacles.

The change is in me. I am what’s changing. The ladder has always been there, but I have never seen it before. Now I see the ladder and I see a way over the walls and as it becomes clearer that it is this opportunity to climb the ladder over the wall that I am supposed to take. It is this change, in these future moments. I battle the fear inside and take a step closer to the ladder, and as I do, I feel such joy!

It’s so exciting to see the path laid out ahead of me like this. For so long it’s been a path that has lead to a wall. But now I see that there is a way over the wall and my journey is opening up. The path is leading to the ladder, not the wall, and I couldn’t see that before. The wall is fear, and the ladder is courage. The other side of the wall holds so many frightening experiences… exciting experiences. To hold back would be stupid. The opportunities are endless once I cross this wall. This is what I believe it is like to fly. This is what it’s like to have change.

I'm no doctor, but I have things to say.

I'm not a doctor, and I'm not a mommie. A doctor would care about a cut. And a mommie, well mommies always care. But Stephenie doesn't seem to care that I'm not a doctor and that I'm not a mommie. She doesn't care a bit that she doesn't even know me. She tells me about her cut anyway.

Stephenie is a little three year old who one day at work (I work at a daycare) took her finger, and after staring at it for a bit, strut over to me and stuffed her finger in front of my face. I said "what Stephenie?" and she told me, "I fell off my bike yesterday and my finger got scraped on the cement. See? I still have to wear a bandaid." And I smiled and gave her finger a kiss, which apparently was what she wanted, and then I ushered her back onto the play room to play with her friends.

I think it is so simply beautiful that a child can talk to me about the tiniest thing and believe that I will care. What a powerful gift. What if we all could simply tap into that ability to say how we feel, and what we are thinking, and what is going on in our lives? Little Stephenie wanted to know that I cared, and I think that's what we all want. But no one can ask us what's going on in our minds or in our lives if we don't show them some part of it. We may wonder why no one asks, why no one cares, and the answer is we don't stick our fingers in front of anyone's face and say "This is what happened to me yesterday. See?"

Perhaps the solution as to why no one asks about our lives is that we don't ask them. And so maybe we need to learn to ask questions like kids ask questions. Out of curiousity or care for other people. Or maybe 'just because'. I hope that I can be curious like a little child and be willing to share what I think and what I feel with those around me, trusting that they will care about my sore finger, even though they aren't doctors or mommies. I hope you can too.

So what happened to you yesterday? I went hiking.

Learning to walk

I’ve pondered to myself in the quiet wee hours and in moments of hectic turmoil about how good I am. I wonder to myself, 'was I a good person because I smiled at that person? Is that what makes me good?' I present questions to the air to be answered by silence and more questions. Then I ask 'does it make me a bad person that I don't want to wear pink?'

And still I get no answer.

I've thought long and hard about choice and agency. It seems that God was so adamant that we have agency. And yet, I wonder to myself, if I do anything good what so ever, credit goes to him? Where then is the incentive to do good? I need credit, simply for motivation sake. I need some sort of feed back that I'm a better person or deserve happiness because I did good. Else, God says 'You do what you will, but if you do good, then give the credit to me.' And I say, 'ha. I'm no fool.'

But then I got thinking. (As usually happens when I'm awake or conscious... which makes me wonder: are we sleeping or awake if we are knocked unconscious?) Anyway, I got thinking. Why would I give God credit for something that I did myself? I asked, 'why would I, who did all the work, say to my maker that he gets credit for how I used my time? Yes he made me, but I'm a living choosing being, so why does that give him gratification and glory every time I do something good? Does that mean I don't get any credit if I do something good?

And then I had a thought that I don't know how it got there (this was a while back, mind you). I'm not sure if I saw the action, or heard it somewhere or made it up, but it explained the answer very well, and maybe the credit goes to him. ;)

It’s a very simple analogy. It's quite simply like a child learning to walk. The child must be prompted at first by parents to take those steps, mom once or dad another, urging the little one forward. The parents teach the child to take steps and use their feet in the process of learning to walk. Then, as the child begins to learn, the parents are needed less and less to guide them in walking, but then the child needs the parents to lean on when they are learning to tie their shoes, and to steady them as they learn to ride their bike or to pick them up if they fall down. The child needs them there to give them support and love.

The credit at first goes to the parents that the child can walk, and even after the child learns to walk, there is credit due the parent, but it's almost entirely due to their coaching of the child as they learned how to walk. The child eventually learns to walk on his or her own but the child learns to choose when and where to walk, and that is not to the parent's credit. Where, and when the child walks is no longer credited to the parent, only that they taught the child to walk.

In the same way, God teaches us goodness, or truth, and we give credit to the help he gives, but then God gives us wings to fly and we choose where to go. He prompts us, gives us signs, but he will not force us, it must be our choice to fly back to him.

Questions unanswered

I was required to write a letter for work, which discussed the idea of cultural diversity in child rearing... Well it got me thinking. So I decided that I would post some of my thoughts.

The letter required that I describe my attitude towards 'child rearing' and 'child guidance'. It was also to describe my personal values, beliefs and cultural practices and how these influence my attitude.

The first thought I had was... what's the difference between 'child rearing' and 'child guidance'? They seem to be so closely related, they are pretty much the same thing. And then was supposed to state my attitude towards it. Well, my attitude towards the idea is fairly simple. I believe that it is incredibly important for children to have an upbringing, a child rearing if you will, wherein the child is given ample opportunity to explore, create, learn right from wrong and develop at their own rate. This is something that the teacher or child care professional (or parent) should be able to provide for the child through their environment.

The childcare professional (or parent) should base all decisions from as correct a set of principles as they are privy to, and never let their emotions or background issues get in the way of communicating or teaching a child. Any communication should be with the intent to teach and care for the child. But this doesn't happen all the time. A lot of people slip up. We aren't perfect. So it's kinda hard to expect this of everyone. All the time anyway.

These are my beliefs, and these beliefs come from my cultural and family background, and they have a firm grasp on how I deal with kids and adults as well. So culture is definitely a factor for me when it comes to looking after children.

I have to admit a weakness now with this concept of cultural diversity. I am of the belief that certain cultural practices are superior to other cultural practices, and quite a few of these practices are ones that come from my own cultural background. One might say I am biased.

One example would be that I believe that it is never OK for one child to hit another, and yet in some cultures it is considered a natural consequence, and would better help the children to understand that they don’t like being hit so they shouldn’t hit others. There are many different examples where morals become involved and I have to choose between my own cultural beliefs and the child's parent’s cultural preferences.

For instance, religion is very well ingrained in some cultures of the world. At our day care, we say a prayer to Jesus before lunch with the kids. What happens if a child tells me that their parent doesn’t want them to say the prayer? Do I enforce it anyway? Ignore them? Talk to the parent? Obviously the latter is the answer, but it still becomes a sticky situation. Other situations may arise and be even more sticky. So where is the line? Where does cultural diversity and morality cross?

I don’t have the answer. I know there must be a procedure to deal with this kind of thing, but I don’t know it. And I may disagree with it, but either way, I will consent to abide by the procedure, because I want to keep my job, even if it crosses my personal beliefs. But I’m forced to question, is that right? Is it better that I abide the procedure than fight for my beliefs? Once again I don't have the answer.

Am I supposed to teach evolution? Or am I supposed to teach creationist ideas? Am I supposed to support gay/lesbian inclinations? Or am I supposed to refuse the ideas from being spread? Obviously I have my own beliefs, but am I going to be stepping over lines of cultural diversity if I suggest or imply my own beliefs?

I can tell you

'Hello', says I,
To the world at large.
And then in a whisper
I say
'did you see me?'
And then I hide my eyes.

'Oh yes,' say I again,
To the audience I see before me,
'Oh, yes,' I whisper,
'I have come to tell you a story.'
And then quieter I say,
'But it's a secret so don't tell.'

And I look at the dead flowers
From last year,
And I look at the yellow grass,
And the naked tree,
And I say
'Can you hear me?'

'Because I'm about to tell you a story.'
And the tree sways,
And the grass stills,
And the flowers are dead;
So they don't move.
But it's been that way.
Since last year.

So I begin:
'This story is about me.'
I say to the nature,
'And it's about yesterday.'

My dog is inside,
And no one is listening.
Except for the trees,
And the grass,
And the dead flowers.
They can't really hear me,
Which is why I tell them the story.

'Yesterday,' I continue
To no one in particular,
'I cried really hard.
Yesterday I screamed.
Silently,
So no one would hear me.

'And I locked my door
So no one would see
The red around my eyes,
Like what happens when I cry.'
The tree sways,
And the grass stills,
And the flowers are dead,
So they don't move.

'And I screamed at the injustice,
Of everything I hate.
I screamed at the world
That I needed someone
To just hold me.
To ask no questions,
Just hold me.

'And I saw the picture of my father,
And I looked at his face
In the desk top picture,
And I screamed at him.
In pain.
Wishing he were there.
But the screams were silent.
So no one heard me.

'I want to keep it that way.'
I say to the audience.
'No one heard me,
And that's how I want it to stay.'
The tree sways,
And the grass stills,
And the flowers are dead
So they don't move.

And I tell them.
I tell the world at large.
The secret.
The secret pain,
That I screamed out.

And the tree
And the grass
And the flowers
Kept my secret silent.
Because they can't talk.
But I can.

And maybe now that I've told you,
The trees and the grass and the flowers
Can breath again,
Let off their loads,
And turn green again.
They've kinda been waiting a long time.

Mind Games

There's a part of me that wants to sit down and write everything that's been playing through my head. And almost literally it has been playing through my head, like a movie re-run on the stage of my imagination. Scenes from past events, current events, and future experiences; they run over and over and make me dizzy with confusion. And I want to just sit down here and let my fingers take on the role of the script writer, flying over the keys into the world of stories and make-believe, hoping that some sense will come of my desire to express myself.

But there's another part of me here too, that says (firstly) "Sera, you ought to be asleep right now, what on EARTH are you still doing up!?" To which I have no reply. No satisfactory answer. All I know is that I'm not following a schedule or logic for that matter, and instead I sit here waiting for a thought to strike me as though I were waiting for lightning to suddenly pierce my thoughts and thereby provide the answers to my quarries. And so this second half of me sits here scolding myself for siting here without understanding or reason for doing so. None that can be explained anyway. Not by logic to that half of my brain that is demanding those answers.

I've had this happen before. I've had feelings, and reasons I thought one way, that I couldn't figure out, and I knew there were reasons but I was left unable to give any reason at all for them. Later on of course, much further after the opportunity to have done something about the feelings, I found myself in a quiet room pondering when suddenly the thought hit me and I realized what the source was, and the reason for the feeling. But by then it was much too late. The person I was speaking to had probably forgotten the conversation, and was on to other more noble efforts, while I stewed on the thought at hand. And so here I am trying to come up with a reason for that half of me that is demanding a sensible answer. And I just don't have an answer.

So now I have a dilemma. I've got one half of me saying "Express yourself and find answers" while the other half says "Go to bed before you say something you'll regret"... meanwhilst I recognize that I've chosen the path directly in between. I've sat down as if to begin expressing myself, but have not allowed myself one word about how I'm actually feeling. Instead I've side-stepped the whole issue.

Which makes me think a little bit here about the phrase that I've come to adopt "How you do one thing is how you do everything." I agree fully, and now if I support that quote so whole-heartedly, I must take a moment to consider that indeed, I live life like I have done this one thing. Which is true. Here I have ridden the line in between going and staying, in between jumping in and sitting on the beach, in between yes and no. And I live life like that. I now realize that I live my life by the word"maybe".

I think I should change that. But for now it's time for bed. I'll have to say what's going on in my head at some later time. Maybe once I've done some figuring out. But shhhh... My favourite re-run is about to start, and I don't want to miss it. I might find the answer this time.

Traveling Teddy

It was grade two, and I thought our teacher was very cool. To all of us kids she was amazing. She was one of those teachers that when you look back on the memories, you can't help but smile. Kids would flock to her and give her hugs at the beginning of class, give her little thank you notes and other tokens of appreciation. She made every class fun and made it exciting to learn, live and go to school.

At the beginning of the year, she told our class that she had a teddy bear. And not just any teddy bear, no. This was Traveling Teddy, and he was special. See, Traveling Teddy had been all over the world with her, packing along his mini suitcase where in lay a little bottle of real toothpaste, tiny Teddy pajamas, swim trunks, a little hairbrush, a camera and many other teddy-sized necessities.

And then she told us that she was going to let Traveling Teddy go home with us kids for a sleep over. She explained that everyone was to put their name on a piece of paper, and put it into a bowl, where she would draw from to see who would take Traveling Teddy home on the weekend. Who ever had their name chosen would be given Teddy, the suitcase and the camera to take pictures of what Traveling Teddy experienced while at their home. She said that Teddy wanted to go to friendly places, and so when someone was mean, Teddy didn't want to go over to their house anymore, and they had to win back Teddy's friendship, otherwise Traveling Teddy wouldn't come over.

So every Friday, a name was drawn from the bowl and Traveling Teddy along with his suitcase and belongings would be carefully placed into the arms of a very excited boy or girl. All during the rest of the week, it was a common topic to guess who would be the one to take home Traveling Teddy on the weekend. Traveling Teddy would sit on the file cabinet during the week, and Mrs. Powell would take him down after each day back to her home where the two of them lived.

Every week I waited anxiously for my name to be chosen, and every week someone else's name was picked from the bowl. It was finally almost the end of the year with only two months left, and names were being put back into the bowl for a second chance with Traveling Teddy, and I still hadn't had a chance to have him over. I thought it wasn't fair, so I went and talked to Mrs. Powell. I told her I hadn't had Traveling Teddy yet, and she told me that my name must have fallen out of the bowl at some point. She said that Teddy had wanted to come over to my house because I'd been so friendly with everyone, but it was just a mistake that the paper had fallen out. Mrs. Powell wrote my name on a new piece of paper and put it into the bowl. She told the person who was about to take him home for the second time that they would do it next week since I hadn't had a turn yet. She said Traveling Teddy would be in my care over this upcoming weekend. The day I took him home was different though. That day, Mrs. Powell wasn't there. Another teacher read from a note that she should give Teddy to me. I took Traveling Teddy home, hoping to show Mrs. Powell the pictures I took and how happy Traveling Teddy was with me. And he was happy that weekend, I made sure of it. Teddy did everything I did. We went on the swing together, played with my other stuffed animals, and ate food together. When the weekend was over, I slipped some Monopoly money in his wallet inside the suitcase, so that he would have a bit of cash with him when he got back to school.

Monday morning, Mrs. Powell was back, and all the kids gave her hugs, but she didn't look well. She looked pretty sick. Pale mostly. I gave Traveling Teddy back to Mrs. Powell, and she put him back on his file cabinet and watched us from his podium. Mrs. Powell didn't get better. Throughout the next few weeks substitute teachers became more frequent, and Traveling Teddy had to sit on the file cabinet over night instead of going home to keep Mrs. Powell company. Mrs. Powell had made sure that the substitute teacher knew that it was important that every kid had a chance to take Traveling Teddy home on the weekend. But soon we had a permanent replacement, and Mrs. Powell would only come to visit. At some point Mrs. Powell must have taken Traveling Teddy home with her, because he wasn't on the file cabinet anymore. The principal of the school came in and told us that Mrs. Powell had cancer and was really sick. He said that this was the last year she was going to teach, and that we should probably all say goodbye to her.

Someone decided to give Mrs. Powell a large cotton teddy bear for everyone to sign to give to Mrs. Powell. Everyone in the class signed it, and all the teachers too. We gave it to Mrs. Powell to help her get better. It was our version of Traveling Teddy. But after a while, just before summer break, I was returning books to the library and noticed that our big, white bear was sitting all alone on a shelf in the library. Looking up at the big white Teddy, no one had to explain it, I knew what it meant. I felt tears run down my face.

That night I went home and picked up my own Teddy bear. I looked at his ruffled fur and worn black nose. This would be my tribute to Mrs. Powell. I made him a cardboard suit case, and I put monopoly money in it. This was my Traveling Teddy. And I would make sure Teddy wanted to sleep over every night, because he saw how friendly I was to everyone. I found my Traveling Teddy some red overalls, and I tucked him into bed beside me. And now, he has been to all sorts of places with me. And he's been in many photo shoots. I still tuck him in to bed with me, but he sleeps with his overalls on.

Mrs. Powell left a mark on me, not through her stuffed bear though. She knew she had cancer, and she decided to spend her last year teaching us in that grade two classroom, exciting us for life and learning, and giving us opportunities to grow and be better people. She gave part of her life to us, and shared some of her light. And for that, Mrs. Powell, I sincerely say Thank You.

Question of Perfection

The question of the evening is: What makes something perfect?

I realized that there is either no such thing as 'perfect', or every single thing is 'perfect'.

Imagine looking at a bowl of soup, and wishing you had something to use to get the soup out of the bowl and into your mouth without getting your fingers or chin mucky. Then imagine a perfect utensil for this job. Maybe you think of a large straw, or a spoon of some sort, or an elongated bowl or something. Well each of these things would be useful and one of them would likely work best, and in this situation, it could be labeled as the 'perfect' utensil. But then imagine the same utensil in a different situation. Now you've got a spoon or straw etc and you've got a plate of spaghetti noodles. 'Now what?' You ask yourself, as you try to get just one blasted noodle onto that spoon. Now, is that spoon still perfect? Yes it's perfect for the soup, but we aren't staring at soup anymore... So is the spoon perfect?

If we say 'yes' the spoon is perfect even though we are staring at spaghetti, then it would not be a huge leap of logic to assume that most if not all things are at some point 'perfect' somewhere or sometime else in this world, but perhaps not here or now. Yet on the other hand if we say 'no', the spoon is not perfect as we stare at spaghetti, then it would not be a huge leap of logic to assume that there is nothing that is perfect in the world because we can always find at least one situation where in the object would not be useful or 'perfect'. It is a matter of perspective as to whether you say 'yes' or 'no', and that is what makes the spoon perfect or not. It's a matter of timing, opinion, and the ultimate goal.

Timing:
At one point in time my shoes were perfect. A perfect fit, and perfect comfort and perfect style. Now they are worn, dirty and frankly imperfect. At one point in time the bow and arrow was the perfect weapon, now outdated, guns are preferred for hunting. Timing helps decide when something is perfect or not. So perhaps everything is perfect, somewhere and sometime in the world, but just not right there or right then.

Opinion:
Priorities and goals of different people also conflict in the quest for perfection. One person may deem some project or invention perfect, but that's according to their standards, and to another it is imperfect because of the standards they have set out for it. Opinions affect the final say of whether something is perfect or not because who or what is to say whether or not something is perfect unless it has some sort of observer to say so.

The ultimate goal:
And of course, who or what can to say that something is perfect unless there is something to measure it against such as a goal or an ideal. Otherwise there are just things in this world with no particular greatness or value to them other than the mere fact that they exist. The ultimate goal of the creator of the object/invention says whether or not the object is perfect, judging between its beginning vision and end product.

And if we present something that is perfect for a job, useful in every function, and then add to it, does that make it imperfect compared to when we started? My opinion is that no, I think not. Because, at the time of its first presentation, it was appropriately perfect for that time, but as time goes on, I think there tends to be a greater need and therefore has the potential to be perfected again. Like a hairdo. One is perfect for school, whereas another hairdo is perfect for a luncheon with the Queen of England.

Forgotten Lessons

Hello. My name is Sera. I pronounce it "Sarah" though. I can spell my own name now. My middle name is harder to spell. I went to kindergarten once.

I remember the big blocks we used to play with. I played with Jeff and we made dinosaurs out of the blocks together. The dinosaurs were as big as I was. That was the first time I was told that I should clean up after myself. We had a lesson on it. I remember the blue frilly shirt mom picked out for me to wear and the pink clothes with skirts that I don't like anymore. I remember the fake food we would pretend to eat during play time. The teacher told us not to really put them in our mouths, because of tiny invisible things called germs or something. I remember using little stuffed animals and tiny kid-sized pillows to sleep on when they turned out the lights. I was usually the only one awake during nap time. I never slept very well. I remember my favorite white bear that I took to nap time with me, and I remember other kids fighting over the rest of the stuffed animals. I cried when kids called me mean names.

Things were so much easier back then. When I was small.

If someone stole my toy or pulled my hair, I could go cry. It was so simple. It would make it all better... After the teacher scolded them, of course. If I had a runny nose, I could wait until the teacher gave me a tissue paper to wipe my nose with, and that was okay. If I fell and scraped my knee, it was okay to cry about it, and the teacher would help me up and take me to the sink and wash my cut and put a bandage on it. And it was not a bad thing to feel hurt back then. It was okay to cry. It was normal.

But I can't solve my problems like that now. Problems are so much harder today. Grown ups don't like it when others cry. I think they don't know what to do because they're all the same height. They're the same size now as the teacher was back then, back when it was okay to cry. They don't know if they should be like the teacher and help people up, and clean their cuts, or if they should be like any other kid from class and cry along with them. After all, we are all the same height now. And instead, in the middle of the confusion between being teacher or class mate, they usually leave, not sure how to deal with what they left back in the room. And the other tall person is left where they were, feeling sad, and still crying, and now a little ashamed that they cried in front of another tall person.

Did I miss that lesson somewhere? The one that told us kids that it's still okay to cry, even when we grow up? Did someone forget to tell me that sometimes people need a hug when they cry, because we all need to feel? Did the teacher just not know that people need love and care, even when they are all grown up? Did she just forget to tell us? Or did her teachers not tell her that if she scraped her knee, it's okay to cry? And that it was normal?

Well, I must have missed those lessons. But I've found out through my own life that sometimes teachers don't know everything. Sometimes nobody knows anything, and all we have left is our feelings, and all we are, is confused little kindergarten kids. Someone out there should let us know that it's okay to feel lost and confused and that it's okay to cry. Someone should tell us that it's still normal.

I am someone.

It's okay to cry.
It's normal.

I think they forgot to tell us that.

I have truly begun to realize the convenience and quite frankly, the joy of elopement. After planning my mother's wedding, a bridal shower, and been part of several other weddings and plannings... I am amazed at the time, preparation and stress involved. It's so incredibly hectic to try and organize every article of clothing for the wedding party, and the table arrangements, and the little kids with their little tuxes, and the microphones and equipment...

I've decided I want to elope.

I want to elope just to get away from all the stressful people who think that two bags of potatoes and five bags of buns and two massive containers of mayo and all the many bags of veggies, as well as the three turkeys won't be enough and that we must get more! I finally get why people get stressed on their wedding days. I used to think it was because people planned on certain things being there like a grand staircase or a red carpet or a specific outfit for the groom that made it stressful because it just didn't work out, and they just want these things so badly... that it must be... But it's not because of all the planning or even because of lack of planning... it's because there are so many people that think that it must be done a certain way and won't accept 'no' as an answer! And because people don't cooperate. At least that's what I think.

But I won't be eloping.... because I know my mom would really hate to miss it. So... Ok, she can come...

... but then if I let her come, I should probably let her husband come...

...and if they come then his parents should probably be allowed to come...

...and maybe my brothers would want to be there if my mom was there...

...and their wives and kids shouldn't be left out...

...and food should probably be provided especially if there is a good distance to travel...

...we should probably get a building booked to have a dinner...

...because that already is a lot of people...

...And if we have food, then tables and chairs would make sense...

Wow... weddings are stressful... I should just elope.

Darkness exists due to the absence of light.

I must have been fairly bored to be staring at my hand so intently. The way the light hit it just so.... I’m sure I looked equally odd when I held my hand still and moved my head down to get a look at the shadowy underside of it. But luckily no one was in the room, so there was no witness to my odd behavior.

It was about that point when I came to a conclusion about light and darkness. Here is an observation, which can be seen at any point in time by any person with access to the sun, a candle or even a child’s plug in night light; it’s not new information. I relate the metaphor to life. Light being anything that uplifts and makes one to feel better in the long term. Darkness being anything that depresses and makes one feel worse in the long term.

Here is the metaphor.

You can light a candle or lamp or turn on a light in any dark room, and the result is a spreading of light through out the whole room, the brightness of the light depending on the power behind the source. Light spreads in all directions, insistently outward, bouncing off the white walls, traveling quite a distance into and around the room, and reflects off of mirrors. In this way, light is shared and spread all over. The light naturally disperses everywhere, lighting everything it can reach.

But these qualities are not reproducible with darkness or shadow. A shadow or darkness cannot spread every direction through the room by lighting a ‘dark’ source, or bouncing off the walls or reflecting in a mirror. Darkness doesn’t spread itself or naturally disperse like light.

I looked at my hand and noticed that the light is only blocked in small areas by objects, and that that is what causes shadow. The light source is there, and then the object blocks the light source's reach to a certain area. That's what darkness is. You can't burn a dark candle, and make a shadow light. You can block the light to small degrees by placing objects in the way of the light, but shadow and darkness does not spread like light. You can have a singular shadow from an object, but there is no type of burning, spreading darkness.

There is one more piece to this. And that piece is that candles, or any light needs a source or fuel. It needs energy or fuel to keep it going. The only power the darkness has over the light besides blocking portion of it's reach, is the power of giving up or drying up. When the fuel runs out or the source dries up, there is darkness. So if we continue striving, hoping believing and trusting, we have power over the darkness, but as soon as we give up, darkness can take over. Other than our own hope drying up, light and goodness prevails.

This is the metaphor I came to realize while staring at my hand. Oh the things we think when we are bored. And yes, I am very glad for the blessing of every once in a while, having nothing to do, being bored enough to stare at my own hand and the light casting shadows on it.

We don't succeed in spite of obstacles, we succeed precisely because of them.

Becoming Identical vs. Becoming Unified

Please read Ryan's orriginal blog, which others of you can read here, because then I think this will make more sense... I figured I should write my thoughts here, instead of in the comment under his blog.

Ok. I bet you already knew this, Ryan, but I had the thought, so I wrote it down. :)

Just by presenting this question, about individualism vs. unity, I believe you are being an individual. Simply by offering this question out to us (the readers), you are being an individual, thinking and expressing your thoughts. And by posing the question, you inspire others to think about and consider answers. Without your 'individualism' in this instance, methinks we wouldn't have this common ground to work our thoughts off of to better understand one another. Without 'individualism', there would be no reason to try to understand one another, no reason for developing 'people skills', no reason for these simple basic life skills, that are obviously needed to cope in life.

Without individualism, there would be no need for understanding different perspectives which we can obviously tell, that there is a need for. If God wanted us to have no differing of perspectives, in order to be 'unified', He would have needed to take away every thing that gives us any differing characteristics. We would need to be the same in skin color, gender, size, and be identical in every way (which I think is the real issue here, the confusion between becoming identical and becoming unified). In order to be 'unified', he would need to allow us no human contact due to the differing of perspectives, simply by our different visual perceptions. Yet this is not the case.

Individualism provides us an opportunity for understanding, and therefore of unity. If our thoughts are understood by each other, then we can grow and develop towards being edified, and therefore, unified. It is through being edified that we find truths, and correct principles, which are anchors in life that once understood, begin to unify us.

We have our individuality, our own personalities, our own flares, but still we can have a common understanding which brings us out of the slums of mockery, slandering, and other attitudes which further us from each other. This common understanding is greater than we are. It's not just understanding one perspective out of the thousands, but God's greater perspective which sheds light on how everything works, and why people are the way they are, and how to interact and live by correct principles. But this does not mean it steals our tastes, goals, tendencies, talents, passions, love or individuality to become unified through understanding.

I suggest that it is this 'individualism' which spawns the ability to attain 'unity'. I believe that it is due to, and because of our individuality that we are able to be unified.

Womanhood Rant

I made sure to get up early. To dress well and make myself presentable. Even though I was super tired. I then drove the two whole blocks to the building. Yes. I drove the whole two blocks. In a car. But it’s cold out there, I reason to myself, and it’s winter and I’ll be late if I walk. Of course this is the same rationalization I use every Sunday. And one would think I’d plan ahead, and just get up earlier so that I could dress warmly, and walk the two whole blocks, but by the time I think of it, it’s time to go get in the car so I can get there on time.

So I’m sitting there. First class, and they start talking about ‘Womanhood’. I nearly rolled my eyes, picked up my stuff and drove the whole two blocks back home. But I only rolled my eyes.

When they start talking about ‘Womanhood’ my mind shifts into full gear, and I begin analyzing everything they say, trying to pick out that something, anything at all that I must have missed so entirely last time. Because last time… and the time before that, and the time before that… and the time before that… I was just as confused as the first time.

‘Womanhood’ is one of those topics that I don’t know what to do with. I get annoyed and depressed with the topic because when they talk about women, they either make them out to be better than men because we can have babies (gasp!), or they say “It’s all right, you’re special too… we just can’t think of a reason how exactly, so just trust us ok?”

They tell us “Men have the priesthood, and are the head of the house. They have the priesthood and the authority so that they can serve you, and provide for your needs, and everything is about you, you, you, and the priesthood was given to men so that they could better appreciate you, and learn to serve you… blah blah blah…” Or they say “Men have the priesthood, which is an amazing power directly from God, and men lead the church, and lead the home… but don’t worry, you don’t need to feel like you’re useless, you can have babies and men can‘t! So… ha!”

Great. I sarcastically sigh. They never really equalize it. They try so hard. They keep saying “Don’t worry, men and women are equal!” But they never give any support for this argument. It’s so easy to say.

I know that I see this through a filter that I’ve come to accept over the years, but that’s because I have seen no evidence to support that statement “Don’t worry, men and women are equal!”
We have no life, we’re pregnant for ten months, during which time our mobility and activities are limited, and then after we have a kid, we clean and care for the kid, while the guy goes off and does fun and important-type stuff…

There are lots of mothers out there who become pregnant with a child for ten months, and that is hard enough, and then she has to breast feed the kid every three hours or something every day, no matter if it’s night time, 3am or not, and don’t forget that she has to change the diapers and all that wonderfulness. They’ve got these babies inside them for ten months, and then once they give birth, the baby is stuck on the outside for another year or so ‘til they learn to walk, and then these women go and have another one!

‘Womanhood’ isn’t just about giving birth and raising kids. I’ve heard many talks and lessons about how great women are, and it’s always tagged in there somewhere, that everything we do is all tailored to the idea of giving birth and raising kids. Well, I beg to differ. I want to hear just one talk, one lesson about how individuals are great. How women are individuals and men are too, and that that is the reason God made us, so we could live and be people of agency to make good choices and come up with good ideas. This is what I feel is missing from all of those talks and lessons and speeches on ‘womanhood’. They say it’s first and foremost about raising children. But I say it’s first and foremost about the potential for being amazing people. It’s not about being living, breathing, reproduction machines. I have joys and talents and desires and ideas and ambitions. I am a person, disassociated from the idea of having children.

I am a person first, who gets up early in the morning on Sunday, gets dressed and makes herself presentable even though she’s tired. I am a person first, who has strengths and flaws and decides drive to a church building every Sunday that’s only two blocks away. Yes, I’m flawed, but I’m an individual first, and then second there is this amazing, sacred duty encompassed by the word: “Womanhood”.

Just Dancing

The rewards of labor

I thought this diagram was pretty cool. I saw it when I was... well a lot younger. The colors were very impressive to me at the time, since it wasn't very often I saw a rainbow in a grown-up's book. So I sat looking at the picture for quite a while before I asked my mom what it meant. At that point in time, I was simply drawn to the pretty rainbow, and so of course, when presented with the choice of which one I thought I should choose, I wanted the rainbow one.

I've since come to realize that there is so much more to the diagram, with much more depth than just a pretty hour-glass shaped object vs. the brownish icky (I swear it looked worse in the book) diamond shaped object. The principle of the comparison is actually quite spectacular. The main principle of this diagram is that what you do now, will affect you later. Whether we choose to do something positive and uplifting (sharing our lollipop with the next kid over), or something negative and depressing (hiding out lollipops from everyone else), we can not avoid the fact that there are consequences to every choice we make. "There -- are -- ALWAYS -- consequences!" As would that guy off of that movie (Jumper) say.

It gets harder and harder as we strive to do good, to keep doing good. But if we endure, if we stick it out and keep on, eventually it will turn around and we will find it becomes easier because the rewards outweigh the challenge. An example of that would be lifting weights. As we lift them, we could realize that it hurts, it's hard and we don't like it. But the more we do it, the stronger we become, and the easier it is. And for some reason people get happy because they can lift big weights. And happiness is the ultimate reward for our actions. We have to keep in mind the long-term happiness though, not the short-term surface-type happiness that can be stolen away in an instant once our environment changes.

True happiness is not dependent on any outside influence.

This means that the happiness we feel in any given situation where 'something made us happy' can be stolen away from us if the situation had been opposite what it was. For example, if someone says "I think you look very attractive today", that might make you happy. If it does make you happy, then the opposite would also stand. If they said "I think you look ugly today", then that would make you feel unhappy. The goal though is to be happy even if someone says something that can be taken offensively. The goal is to stay focused on the big picture and realize that even if the world around you is a mosh pit of chaos, or a battle field of arrows aimed at you, or a jail cell of injustice... You can still be happy. Or at least at peace with yourself.

One way to do that, is to be grateful all the time, and looking on the bright side of things. If someone says "I think you look ugly today", you could be grateful that the implication is that the rest of the days, you look beautiful. Or you could be grateful that they pointed it out before you walked out the door so you could do something about it. Or you could be grateful that you don't care if they think you look ugly. Or you could be grateful that you have some duct tape in the drawer. See? All these bright, happy... happy thoughts.

It's the point of this life. "Everlasting Happiness"