parable of the grapevine (although there probably already is one)

These Northwestern summer nights are perfect -- cool and soft and limpid, tranquil and dark. I went outside last night at dusk because I could see a breeze through the window and needed to quiet for a moment the thinking frenzy I've been spinning circles in over the last month. I found the swing in the big pine between our house and the neighbors's and swung into the breeze, leaning back to watch the branches whirl silently overhead. It helped, until I spun the swing right back into my mind-trap, got mad, got off, and kicked the swing. Tromped through the ivy and into the backyard, where I dusted off an old wicker chair and sat for nearly an hour under the pergola, which supports our last remaining grapevine. Over me and the pergola and the grapevine loomed a giant oak from the back-neighbors yard, swaying and fluttering gracefully against the deep Parrish blue sky. I looked up at the grapevine, which was trying to tell me something.

One of its long green tendrils stretched out from the pergola over my head, and i wondered what it was reaching for, since the nearest stable object was still a good 12 feet away. I watched it reaching out hopefully, putting out tiny new leaves and feelers that ended up curling together around nothing, just hanging there. There were countless other young tendrils doing the same thing, poking out from all sides of the pergola in all directions. Some had connected, curling tightly around each other, creating points of strength, of reinforcement. All of these tendrils, however, could only stretch out so far from the pillars and the pergola before dropping under their own weight. Mostly they didn't, I assume because they knew when to quit.

There was one old main branch, and all it grew entwined around and was supported by the pergola. On top of the pergola (can you tell I like the word pergola?) grew most of the broad green sun-soaking leaves, quite beautiful and healthy and young, and the tendrils. From the underside of the pergola hung a bunch of dead black branches and broken tendrils, old dead matter from years gone by, hidden artfully under the living and seemingly perfect outer covering of fresh leaves.

It occurred to me that without constantly reaching and stretching its tendrils and feelers out into thin air, even without having anything to cling to, the grapevine wouldn't grow. Even though it didn't reach anything solid, the reaching tendril grew, and expanded, beautified, and in its own small way, strengthened the whole vine. I also saw that without the stability of the pergola, the grapevine would never have gotten so big, so healthy, so beautiful, fruitful, or useful. The one branch, although it provided life to the whole plant, couldn't possibly support its own weight, and would've trailed haplessly along the ground. And although it hid all that old dead matter so artfully, I wondered whether it would be healthier or more fruitful if the lingering rotten things were pruned away. And I wondered then what would happen if even most of the living green stuff were pruned ruthlessly away - what would the grapevine do? The answer of course is simple: put out those little tendrils in faith and trust and grow back, every time.

Life applications? I think so. I said a little prayer, smiled, and went back inside.

omega dog

Something's wrong, and I can't quite figure it out. I feel like I'm hanging out on the edge of spontaneous combustion. I'm angry. I don't get angry. It's like oil on a freshwater lake - I'll get frustrated, maybe the skin of oil on top will bubble and ignite once in awhile, but it never lasts very long or goes very deep. But not now - I feel like a chunk of water-logged rocket fuel. Dry me out and I could start a war. I could end a war. A good hour of hand-to-hand combat might help. I'd lose of course, but it would be good for me. If I won, I wouldn't know what to do. It would go against the laws of history and nature, and it would make it worse. If I lost, it would put me back in my place and I would remember that no, I don't have enough backing logically, politically, or materially, to start a war. I'd close my eyes, bruised, and ask myself why it has to take pain to teach me what I really am and what I'm here for. And humility and humiliation would push me back into the groove of peace.

I just got back from a lovely trip to Italy with true friends, I'm chillin at home in my beloved Northwest, with my family, the most loving and validating people in my life. I have music again, and played with Libby and the kitty and the beardies this morning, and all should be better than it's been in months. So much for clarity. So that in itself is frustrating.

Maybe it's just persistent old habits. I can't express in words how much I hate old shadows, or how hard it is to get rid of them when you're in their old stomping grounds. But enough of that. No excuses. Dadgummit, it all just comes back to me, and I have to remind myself that at times like this it's silly to look for external solutions to internal problems. Isn't it?

Why the heck am I writing this? I probably shouldn't post it. Hang it all, maybe I will.

now and endless

I love where I am right now. Life is perfectly balanced on the precipice of change. Important paths are converging and diverging, and I am poised to circumnavigate half the globe. The butterfly effect is taking wing all over the place and it's stunningly beautiful to watch. It is the hand of God moving over the world in infinitesimally subtle and cosmic ways. A glance here, a word there, the way the sun glinted in the eyes of someone you may never talk to – these are the things that are constantly changing our lives and molding our futures. We live in such a delicate balance, but it all turns out right in the end. Somehow it always does. Isn't that magnificent? Never have I found such a firm underlying state of peace. It's not permanent, I'm sure, but it's just the kind that could be, if everything stayed balanced just right. But nothing is more transitory and elusive than perfect balance. It's like at the turn of fall, when the trees start to think about changing, and the maples send faint little red veins through the green of their leaves in preparation for the flood of color to follow; or like in the initiation of spring, when the most delicate fragile green things gently push at the heavy layers of greyness and decay from last year's end, and the skeletal trees swath themselves in thin green clouds so faint you can only see them peripherally. We're talking phases that linger only a few short days. So achingly beautiful that it's what I look forward to all the rest of the year.

There is a strange steady exhilaration in everything right now, and I have the strangest feeling that this summer is somehow going to be really important, even pivotal, in the long run. I've been feeling that for months now. And I don't think it's just that I'm going to Italy for a little while. Just all the changes flying so thick and fast – new paradigms, new people, new discoveries, new situations and new revelations. Like some of the old boxes I've lived in for so long are falling apart and away and there are new horizons everywhere.

Anyhow. I'm running out of words. Sorry, apparently I get kind of obsessive about life sometimes, and then make you all listen to/read it. But life is cool, you gotta admit that. Endless opportunities. We live in the day and age where the line between dreams, ideas, and reality is fading away. No joke. Sometimes it's kind of scary, really. In an incredibly awesome way.

I just figured out life. Hah!

So. This is how it works. We are here to learn to find/have/create joy. There is no joy without growth. There is no growth without opposition. Therefore: not only can we find joy in adversity, but we cannot have joy without it. Or conversely; opposition and adversity (when survived) lead to growth, which leads to joy. Notice my word choice; JOY. Not happiness, which tends to be less deep and more temporary, and can come from things like comfort, pleasure, validation, sunshine and rainbows, etc. Joy, which is what God experiences and wants us to experience, must be earned, and it ain't no happy-meal prize. Which means that when they are handled rightly, the rough spots in life should end up being the best things that ever happened to us.

Does that make any sense?

Let's back this up. President Thomas S. Monson obviously understood this principle when he spoke in last month's General Conference. He related one of the most heartbreaking stories I've ever heard, about a woman who lost her husband to the violence of WWII and watched her four children die slowly of the cold and starvation of having to travel on foot from East Prussia to West Germany in the dead of winter. She dug the graves of her first three children in the frozen ground with a tablespoon, and for her last child, all she had left was her hands. When she arrived at her destination, alone and with nothing, she was in the advanced stages of starvation. President Monson said she spoke in a church meeting soon afterwards, "stating that of all the ailing people in her saddened land, she was one of the happiest, because she knew that God lived, that Jesus is the Christ, and that He died and was resurrected so that we might live again." President Monson closed his talk with these words: "My beloved brothers and sisters, fear not. Be of good cheer. The future is as bright as your faith."

I think to many of us who were raised LDS, this principle is sometimes fairly obvious. Sometimes not. It's all through the scriptures (check out 2 Nephi 2 for instance), the words of the prophets, and for most of us, life experience. I don't know why this just seems so important right now. I mean, it always is, but right now the concept of the symbiosis of joy and pain seems especially pertinent.

Let's be honest. We live in kind of sobering times. A lot of people are scared. Fear and despair run rampant over the earth, corruption and deception and uncertainty ooze from just about every corner, and there are wars and earthquakes and all sorts of stuff going on, both at home and abroad. We live in the day prophesied when "the love of many shall wax cold, and men's hearts shall fail them." And no wonder. Life ain't getting any easier, and certainly no less complicated. But ladies and gentlemen, we have it good, and we have nothing to worry about. "If ye are prepared, ye shall not fear." I used to read that to mean that those who are sufficiently prepared will be able to avoid a lot of the hardships that those less prepared will have to face. Now I'm not so sure; I think it's not how much we can avoid or escape hardship so much as how we approach it, and those who are prepared shall not fear because: A. they know Who is in charge, and where to go for guidance, revelation, and light. B. They understand that they can choose how they react to adversity, both internally and externally (read Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl). C. They understand that as long as they are doing what they know is right, nothing can ever be permanently wrong. (Conversely, those who choose not to live according to their better judgement will soon find that nothing will ever be permanently right. => Fear.) Those who are prepared know how to trust the Lord in all circumstances, and know that "all things shall work together for their good." Like my grandma used to say: "Everything turns out all right in the end, and if it ain't right yet, it ain't the end yet."

I did it again. I'm so preachy this week! But you know what I mean. Actually, I think this is mostly just for me; I've realized recently how grateful I am for the rough things I've had to go through - nothing hugely tragic or heart-wrenching, but you know. Everyone hits points in their lives when they feel like they are living by a thread. It's truly amazing how much richer my life has become after I've come out of those dark spots. And man, how grateful I am for the strength of that little thread!

So all I'm trying to say is, chin up. Be of good cheer, because you don't necessarily have to eke out a meager survival from those hard times if you do your best to squeeze every drop of wisdom you can get out of that lemon. And as to the future, guys, it's gonna be great. Crazy, but great. :)

Let's be friends, people!

Hmm. Life is so interesting and turbulent right now. It's kind of incredible really; this last week has been eventful enough to fill a month, and this last month has been enough probably to fill almost a year. Not in any really obvious way though. Sometimes paradigm shifts fall thick and fast.

One of the big things that's struck me again recently is the overwhelming need for gratitude in our lives; for the very air we breathe, and especially for those who breathe it with us. People, we have so much to be grateful for. If you are reading this, listen up. Exhibit A; you can read. Props to you. Literacy and education are the lot of a privileged few in our wide world. B; you have access to a computer and knowledge of how to use it. You have the most sophisticated networking, computing, research, and communication technology known to man at your fingertips. C; you probably live in America, or some other first-world English-speaking country, or you have lived there because that's where you met me. Don't even get me started on that. D; you have the time and leisure to read this at all and give thought to your identity, your life-direction, your own potential, and you are able to choose how to use the time you have been given. Seriously folks, we've got it good. And no, I'm not trying to guilt-trip anyone into gratitude, because that totally doesn't work.

It just hits me now and then how ridiculously blessed I have been in so many ways. For starters: I can't really remember a time when I have NOT been surrounded by really wonderful, loving, supportive, amazing, outstanding people. You are all awesome. Thank you for your love, patience, and kindness. Most of you will probably never know how much I have learned from you personally. Many of you I continue to learn from. A few of you have changed my life in more significant ways than you may ever realize.

I believe that people are basically good. I believe that each of us is a son or daughter of God, that He loves us and expects us to live up to our full potential, which is usually much greater than any of us would dare to imagine. I believe that each person has the potential to do much good, to become truly great, and that there is a spark of divinity in each soul which propels us towards living meaningful lives and surrounding ourselves with that which is beautiful, praiseworthy, light, and good. I believe there is a light in your eyes. You have the power to make something of yourself. One of my favorite quotes (I wish I remembered who it was from exactly): “There is little difference between the great men and women of the world and those who have wasted their lives. Those who have been successful have simply made better decisions.”

So yeah, okay, I am kind of waxing preachy. I'll just say this much more: guys, be nice to each other. People are cool; every one has something glorious and great inside them, and at some point every one has or will have something inside them that is incredibly wounded and raw. We've all been there. Let's try to see each other not only as human beings, but as people. Let's try to see each other as what we could be. And let us remember that nobody can get there alone.

In summary, let's be friends. And let's all try a little harder to understand what that means.

Conference photos you won't see in the Ensign.

Honoring the Lizard of Oz

This is from the first time I met the beardies. They belonged to the super sweet family I was working for at the time, but they are ours now. Their names are Crikers and Beaut, in honor of the late Steve Erwin, I believe. They look fearsome for the first thirty seconds or so, and then they just look sort of earnestly vacant. What surprised me most was their fragility, and warmth. Normally when I think of a lizard, say, an iguana, I think of something cold and slimy-hard like a crab, or leathery like that little rubbery plastic alligator we had for years until its bottom jaw eventually got ripped off by a couple of vigorously well-meaning tykes. But these little guys, just beneath their fearsomely spiky skins (which looked almost like exoskeletons, but were thinner than mine), were as soft and delicate-boned as rabbits. One hung down the front of my shirt like a huge brooch, curling his sharp little claws into my mercifully thick sweater. The other draped himself across my shoulder. Mom, who was with me, held one in the crook of her arm like a baby and rocked it for awhile. She discovered that when she turned, the lizard would keep his head in the same place and let his little body pivot around it like a door-hinge. The one I was holding did that too. One of the Thomson boys said his grandmother’s chickens do the same thing. He said he could lift any of them up, down, side to side, and it would stretch its little neck as far as it could to keep its head at the same point on the x, y, and z planes as it had started. With that kind of 3D precision, I think we should start hiring lizards and chickens to be fighter pilots. Who knows? World peace could be just around the corner.