Crowded with Love, Choosing to Care

Author's gripe: Ok, this is my second time entirely writing this blog. In some cruel twist of sadistic fate, the formatting on my entry got all jacked up and when I finally published my post it looked something akin to a Michael Bay film--one big mess. And yet, as I began to think of my current rantings that comprise this most recent shot in the dark, I realized that to some I may be a broken record. And while I take months off between posts to live in my cabin on Walden pond and brood I do think that perhaps a straight, linear reading of all my posts in order might grow wearisome for those who hate replaying the same song over again, especially if it's "All by Myself." And so, instead of ultimately apologizing for a blog that took me three days to write, I'll just reconsider renaming my blog to "A Shot in the Dark: Or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love My Solitude."

In the spirit of reading some fine posts lately, I've decided to take my own whack at the cherry tree of Blogdom tonight. It's been a while since I've put my thoughts down like this, but I've been thinking about writing here probably every week for months. Ultimately my problem is that for all my pontificating about the desire to record moving prose, all my thoughts suffer a fate similar to water that shoots out a broken fire hydrant--it flows right down the gutter and into the drain; a drain that leads to a sort of Room of Requirement in my mind where all the derelict ideas of blogs gone by take up space and collect dust. Joseph Smith used to bemoan the commandment to keep active minutes of his meetings because of his frustration at having to write everything down all the time. But he also said that if he had only followed this commandment from the beginning instead of dragging his feet, he could have saved himself from a world of hurt with solutions the Lord had already given him, if only he had written them down. For this reason alone dying should prove to be quite the journey as the veil is lifted and we can explore an undiscovered country's worth of past dreams and underutilized ideas and inside jokes.
There's a quote from Oscar Wilde in his brilliant play "The Importance of Being Earnest," intimating that keeping a journal is worth it if only to read something entertaining as you while away the time on the train. I'm sure that for a writer of Oscar Wilde's caliber this would be true. But in my case I think my failures to record my thoughts right when I get them have something to do with the fact that my journal was never entertaining to read. In fact, recounting the woes of a prepubescent Spencer never carried with it the sort of charm suitable for a leisurely ride through Wiltshire; more like a reader's digest version of Lagoon's Wild Mouse: it's painful, all too familiar, and makes you question why you keep standing in line. I guess we keep reminiscing in the ruins of our pasts because we thrive off the nostalgia of a time when we felt ourselves in the thick of things, even if we despise who we were...or who we became. This is definitely true as I find myself reading letters or fingering trinkets from past relationships; monuments to a very cool gallery of rogues. I can only imagine the liberation that comes with marriage as you do away with all the baggage of those unions that in the end made you work harder to move on from than to create in the first place. Even years later I find myself still smitten with a smile, or a look, or a word, just as much as I am still haunted by an evening, or an insult, or by silence.
Thankfully though (or perhaps, disastrously) I'm not the only one of my friends who is plagued by this crazy little thing called love. As time goes by and brothers take council in the hot tub to discuss "what the hell is going on with these effing girls," the bond of friendship is strengthened as we declare to leave no man behind until that day when--with our wife by our side--we are commanded to cleave not unto our father or our mother (or our Brotherhood) but unto she who's made her will our own. As bolstering as that pledge is, it still hurts to think that while the rest of our associations are kayaking just around the river bend with their own eagle-eyed soul mate, we're drowning in the ripples of frustrated love.
This sort of segues to a question that I've heard posed time and again by myself and others. What do we do now? How do we deal with the disappointment? For my own part, I can only throw my hands in the air. My track record is sketchy at best and I'm just choosing to deal with steady dating woes through abstinence until I can find my own Ramona Flowers (i.e. someone I'd be crazy enough to fight a Vegan for).
It's a vexing matter, this loveless epidemic. While not new by any means, it attacks not silently in the night, but on open field in broad daylight. Its handiwork is seen on the faces of its victims and when the night comes and others return to their lover's bed, the band keeps playing in your ear "you're alone! You're alone! You're alone!" Truly it's as Marco Rameus says in The Hunt for Red October, "It's a war with no medals, no victories, only casualties."
It reminds me of the final scene of one of Steven Sondheim's masterpieces, Company. The play follows a man named Bobby-womanizing, carefree socialite who's popularity among his married friends is the means by which he defines his life.
Throughout the play he wrestles with these same questions of loneliness, self-worth, and the need to be married for the right reasons. In the final scene of the play he is being seduced by one of his married friends, Joanne. As she whispers in his ear and tells him why she wants him she finishes by saying "I'll take care of you..."to which Bobby replies, "But who will I take care of?"At that moment the blaring, annoying, pulsating droning of his friends' beckoning breaks through the silence in a shocking fortissimo, reminding him of the one thing that has been his obsession the entire musical: "You're alone! You're alone! You're alone!!" In a cry of fatigued desperation he shouts at the top of his lungs. "STOP!!!" And then begins to sing the jewel of the show; a song about living, where he makes the realization that "alone is alone. Not alive." It's a moving and poignant ending to a show that forces everyone to grapple with the art of life, not just the existence of being.
At this time I am fully aware of the sensitive and very real pain of those who travel in our spheres who have lost hope of true love in this life. It's the reason why Mother's Day has more or less become Women's Day, and why roses are handed out to every female over the age of 18 during Sacrament Meeting, regardless of motherhood. The absence of companionship--for any reason--has forced many of those we love to reevaluate what it means to have a life of substance,a life of art. Over the course of the year I've kept up this blog, I have written a number of drafts that I meant to finish and publish here but that have, for one reason or another (laziness), gone down that drain. One such draft I found myself writing in my grandmother's living room an hour after the news had broken that my aunt had passed away. I think it ties in well with what I'm talking about:
Nov. 19, 2010
I woke up this morning, groggy and blind--glasses were in the car and so were my replacement contacts. After a night of Harry Potter all I could think of doing upon my arrival home at 3:30 in the morning was to stalk up to bed, take off my shirt, and check out. My sleep was peaceful,and I spent the entire night writing poetry in my dreams. I awoke to an equally pleasant morning, oblivious to the goings on of a night that saw births and deaths, accidents and parties, laughter, screams, and tears of joy and fear. I've often been told about the calm before the storm, a principle the extent of which exists for me only in the movies. But such was my morning. After an effort to locate a house phone amid the pish-posh of things we haven't put away yet, I called my mom.
"Hey Mom, how're you doing?"
"Not too well, Spence. I've been trying to get a hold of you all morning."
"Yeah sorry, my phone was dead. What happened?"
"Gerri died last night."
"What? Your cousin? The one with the heart problems?"
"No Spencer. Gerri my sister--your Aunt Gerri."
And that was it. A life extinguished. I showered and ran over to my grandmother's where the family had congregated. Cars filled the driveway and as I walked in all heads glanced in my direction and my whispered name reached my ears. My mother and grandmother rose to greet me with a tear-stained hug, their emotions breaking as I wrapped my arms around them.
Death in a Mormon family is a peculiar thing--there is nothing else like it really in any other culture. The funny thing I've noticed about Mormon families greeting Death is that once everyone is gathered and hugs and kisses shared, the next order of business is to send for take-out. It wasn't long before my aunt and uncle had returned with clam chowder and fries and we all sat around the table talking about Harry Potter and how unlucky it was that the next day was my uncle's birthday, considering the tragedy at hand. In the moment, what could be said? My Aunt Gerri was far from the Church, and those in attendance around the table were no better off in that respect. Most of Gerri's life had been a confused and muddled mess of addictions, depression, pain, and mistrust--making the reminiscing of happier times almost nonexistent. She turned into a bit of a recluse in her twilight years and therefore had few happy memories with anyone on which to remark (a case put into startling clarity by the fact that Aunt Gerri was not the first person I thought of when told by my mother [a side note, when Gerri's husband Dave died over ten years ago, my reaction was the same: "who's Dave?"]). But despite all of that, the mercy of God's love was present as familial closeness fused hearts together over Club crackers and Fresca.
The subject of Death has been on my mind a lot this week and it all begins with Willa Cather:
He thought of city cemeteries; acres of shrubbery and heavy stone, so arranged and lonely and unlike anything in the living world. Cities of the dead, indeed; cities of the forgotten, of the "put away." But this was open and free, this little square of long grass which the wind for ever stirred. Nothing but the sky overhead,and the many-coloured fields running on until they met that sky. The horses worked here in summer; the neighbors passed on their way to town; and over yonder, in the cornfield, Rosicky's own cattle would be eating fodder as winter came on. Nothing could be more undeathlike than this place; nothing could be more right for a man who helped do the work of great cities and had always longed for the open country and had got to it at last. Rosicky's life seemed to him complete and beautiful.
At the viewing I lamely stood in line shaking hands with my grandmother's friends, explaining that no, I wasn't Gerri's brother but rather her nephew and that yes, I was in Fiddler on the Roof. As we closed the casket my cousin played on his violin, a scratchy Ode to Joy from a 12 year old--as honorable as Taps, and all that Gerri would receive.
The drive home was accompanied with all the feelings of a silent car after a funeral, and as we gathered at my grandmother's house to support her I noticed that through the family room window grew a new sprig of blueberries; a fruit that has never grown there in all my memory. It struck me that in Gerri's own way her life had been full of art, and at her passing she would leave something made from nothing--a newness of life. (End.)
Whether it's love, life, or the lack thereof, when asking the question "what do we do next?" I submit that we live, and make art of our life. When in the gale of life's uncertainties, order take-out and then move forward. Pray that your eyes are opened to the purpose of your suffering, and know that they that be with us, are more than they that be with them. And then call me, and help me do it too. As Bobby stands in the spotlight alone he spreads his hands toward heaven and pleads for someone to sit in his chair, and ruin his sleep and make him know that his life amounts to something.
Luckily Bobby gives us a stirring example of what not to do, as he waits until he's melting in the crucible to petition Providence. We can make that step one. I'm grateful for a life full of those who learn to deal with trials positively, and spend their energies crowding me with love. This attitude of paying it forward and choosing to care (rather than being forced to), is what will make Zion from Gomorrah, where we shall be to all a brother and live after the manner of happiness.

Story of an Hour; Story of a Year.

I went for a drive today. Well, just now really. It's amazing how coaxing a little bit of sunshine can be. I spent 12 hours in my room yesterday. I hadn't realized it until 2 a.m. when I had convinced myself that there really wasn't anything not worth doing that was worth doing at that hour and sort of shuffled off to bed. Outside, roommates were attending to their own pre-sleep activities and I sort of dazedly walked out to join them in slowly taking out my contacts, and slowly putting toothpaste on my toothbrush and slowly returning to my cave. I said my prayers; a long list of pleases and why's and why not's and ok's all stamped and sealed with a short, goodnight.

The room was dark, apart from that light that constantly blinks on and off on the other side of the volleyball pitch that shone through my window on the wall; the glory of the Soviet Union flickered with 100 watt illumination all night long. I went to bed thinking I was turning into Woody Allen--manic, convoluted, like every sphere of my existence was windowed with fun house mirrors through which I see the world.

The day began just as stirring as the previous one had ended. I entertained myself with "Fawlty Towers" (a love letter to patriots of the British humor), drank some juice boxes, and went to choir. But all the while I sat thinking. "You're turning into friggen Howard Hughes."

Thankfully I got a text message, which gave me reason to indulge in the sun's beckonings: "She brought your stuff, come over and get it." Relics from the sort of "Battle of the Bulge" of my love life. I decide to get some food while I'm out so I hop in the car and drive the 20 feet to my neighbors' to pick up my crap.

"She left you some money for the stuff she couldn't find."

"I can't even remember what it is she lost."

"Neither could she."

Well that's dumb, I think. Leave the money, take the cannoli. No use making her pay for something she might not have even lost.

I left the apartment. Hadn't even removed my sunglasses.

I got in the car and turned on the Beatles. I want to hear that song we're singing in choir. It wasn't there. How 'bout that other one? Harry Connick just did an arrangement of it. Not there. A title jumps out at me and I like it: "Carry That Weight." I turn it on.

"Boy, you're gonna carry that weight! Carry that weight a long time!"

Right, this can be my emo anthem for the day. You should put your hood up and embrace it. Actually, don't. It cuts off your peripheral vision and you can't drive worth a crap. Just carry that weight, a long time. Oh hell. The only weight you're carryin' is the one you fashioned for yourself. Stop yer boobin'.

Song change.

"I went up stairs and had a smoke, and somebody spoke and I went into a dream..."

You're not even hungry. Why are you even driving? You'll waste all the gas you just dropped 50 bucks for. Well, how am I gonna get around the city and enjoy this sun? You ever try walking? I'm not gonna walk around town like a freaken homely kid; just shut up and choose a place to eat. Look, there's a Subway. Turn. Sorry dude. (I bet that guy hates me now. I can't make up my mind until I've almost passed the place.)

I figured I'd get a footlong. Something cold, that can keep. A veggie. I don't need the chips though, or a huge drink. (I got waters at home).

Gosh, why do I always get this urge to "create" when I get in these moods? You're not freaken Michelangelo. Fine, that's it. I'm just gonna blog. I've shunned that cursed excuse for non-censorship long enough, perhaps I'll make its day and just punch out a taste of this existence I've created for myself the last two days. Everyone will think all those things they don't want you to think, though. Gosh, I don't even care. They're going to have those opinions anyway. And it's not like I'm gonna publicize this. "Come on over and read about the Fall of the House of Hunter!" You're not "falling." You're just ready to mean something to someone again. Oh gosh, not like that. I'm in no mood for twitterpations. I'm just saying that the sun has set on this whole "chart your own course straight into the iceberg" part of my life. I gotta get ready to meet the person who's gonna teach me what love is. You're not that person yet, Spencer. Yeah, thanks. I know.

And so here I am. Blogging, making copies of my internal dialogues so I can keep myself in check. Tell myself "I told ya so" should the need arise. Funny how those passing phases seem to set up shop for a while. I think I've been entertaining this passing phase since, oh, May. It's ok though. I'm sure everyone has a few oddball...years... It's just interesting how what seems like such a hallmark of life truly means nothing. It's like holding a mirror in front of a vampire. I wouldn't say I'm always this cynical or even this pessimistic. Just been one of those years. On the mission I would concentrate on my problems, make love to my problems, and then shrug them off. I would chuckle and tell myself that 5 years from now I won't remember the feelings of despair at how the babooshka couldn't freaken let her J Dub friends go or how much I hated Leonid for keeping Zoe away from the truth. I'll just remember that I did, and how it doesn't hurt anymore because that was 5 years ago and who the hell cares anymore. They'll all accept it eventually, why should I care if it was from me or not?

That's sorta how I'm tackling this whole post-mission, post-six kisses, post-life smacking you in the face and telling you to snap out of it and grow up phase of my life. In 5 years, I'll be a happy father and I'll be in love with my wife. What else matters? This has certainly helped me get over that flub of a year before my mission anyway.

That's life for you. Everyone's got problems, everyone's got baggage. No one's exempt from that fine, unifying truth. It's how we deal that tells us who we are and what lets others view past the veil and see the true nature of your intelligence. God is real. God lives. Of all the things I know, I'm the most glad I know that one. Everything else, eventually, just becomes what the Russians call "spare change."

I'll probably see all of you in class tomorrow. Know that I love you. Actually, there are a few of you I wish I could love more. Or even...know...more, really.

After all that, all I can say is I'm glad I got the cold sandwich.

Musings for a Moment

There is a movie I've seen only once, but which I've thought about off and on for years. I don't think it got particularly raving reviews; in fact with every scroll of the reel its credits are lined with a list of retirees and has-beens. And yet, I can't stop thinking about it. In one of the scenes a gifted student is speaking to a recluse novelist about the intricacies of writing and, after being invited to sit at the typewriter and put something on paper, the student is chastised for taking time to think of what to say before he types. "No thinking. That comes later. You write your first draft with your heart; you rewrite with your head. The first key to writing...is to write. Not to think."

And thus we have my first offense: I think too damn much. And in thinking, I sit and in sitting I stop and in stopping I end all processes of creation, and in a way rob myself and you. That is why I have decided to write this blog with no topic in mind, letting my heart do the typing. And just for a splash of spice and good measure, I'm writing this after midnight. My eyes are shut with finger on the trigger...

Have you ever tried to understand your feelings by conjuring up an abstract mental image that best describes them? I tend to do that a lot, usually when I'm in the middle of one of those "sitting and thinking spells." Most often I use this technique when I'm writing to give a sense of reality to my characters or situations and it occasionally offers itself as a good deterrent to writer's block. But if I were to sit down and write a story about my feelings right now though, I think it would probably end with a case of my protagonist erupting in flames--the unlucky victim of spontaneous human combustion.

I have been tempted lately to smirk at the goop of ironies life has decided to spoon onto my plate. For some reason, writing a blog is tough for me; much like writing a journal. In the world of writing I fancy myself more of a magician, who paints illusions of reality before the readers eyes rather than delving into what is true and what is right. It is much easier for me to write down my thoughts and call me Ishmael than to write down my thoughts and call me Spencer.

And yet this experiment in blogging, which I have tried so hard to keep from the trash compactor of my mind still succeeds in producing a lot of garbage. Or at least, the thought of what I might put in it does. As a result, I fear each of my shots in the dark comes off as heavy and somewhat intimidating if my feelings while writing them are any indication.

I guess this leads me to the real rub of it all. Fear. Fear of failure. Fear of falling short. Fear of producing mundane or juvenile things. Fear that if anyone sees me for who am truly am, without the gloss of an hour or two's treatment, they might actually see a scar. Don't get me wrong, though. What I write (and in a good measure, how I act, what I say, or how I look) is truly a mark of who I am. I guess that's true for everyone to a certain extent; what you see is what you get. But I think in order to escape combustion on a metaphorical level, I need to start the journey away from the effected.

My Walk Through The Garden

On this, my latest excursion to the mountain I am bound to raise some eyebrows. My mind is a jumble of emotions and thoughts and theories that I have to somehow sort through to make a coherent and concise essay. As I lay brooding out on the grass in the sweltering sun yesterday over recent choices I had made concerning dating, I found myself experiencing what I can only describe as a "Siddharthean catharsis." Much like Hermann Hesse's title character, I had embarked upon a journey; a journey that was all I could think of, and yet who's motives stayed cloaked from my consciousness--only the inner me knew the whole story, and only in the epilogue did the true plot come into light. Now, Siddhartha searched for Nirvana, and I....? I realize only now what I was looking for, what I am still looking for: salvation. Albeit in a roundabout way. Let me try and explain from this soup of thoughts and emotions that are sloshing around inside of me.

From almost the first moment we read of the creation of the human being, the Gods pose a most important question: "Is it good for Man to be alone?" The answer came, seemingly immediate and without doubt: "It is not good for Man to be alone." If this is true, and our Creators were correct in their assessment, then one must beg the question as he stands at life's crossroad: "Why is it so hard then?"

For those who have been steady stalkers of my Facebook page of late, some pretty interesting developments must have crossed the radar. As an aside, I think I hate Facebook. It gives me the sorta vibe that I'm somehow doing drugs or something because it's not really helping me become a better person, but rather satiates the need in me to "gossip and be gossiped." The thrill of becoming "Facebook official" is quickly replacing what used to be getting pinned for our grandparents, or going steady for our parents. It's out there, loud and proud, with a Siren's song to boot: "Comment on Spencer's changed relationship status." How can one resist? The urge to support, jeer, or (my personal favorite) "give advice" is almost too much for most to handle. At least I can speak from personal experience. Damned if the couple doesn't know that their hooking up sends me into fits of "lol's" and "tee hee's."

Anyway, I digress. For the Facebook aware among us, I'm sure the the words "Spencer's in a relationship and it's complicated" fired a few synapses. I know it did mine. But as I pondered more and more the tag "it's complicated," I began to question myself. "Aren't they all, though?"

I mean to say, aren't all relationships balancing on the edge? Oh, things may be fine on the outside; we're friends, we like each other's company, we're attracted to each other, our friends and/or family are supporting us. But underneath the surface there are complications, questions if you will. "Am I in love with this person? Really?; Where does the emotional love stop and the physical love start?; What if they don't wait for me to come home/come back/or just plain come around?; Are they honestly good for me, or am I afraid or unable to say no?; Can I really see myself marrying this person (and if you're a Latter-Day Saint, you could say 'Spend Eternity with this person?')" If these questions or others don't arise in the background somewhere, then go and marry them. If you can't, then I rest my case.

Now, I'm not naive enough to suggest that all problems must be fixed and all wrinkles ironed out before marriage; I know of no more potent time of emotional ups and downs than the that of leading up to a wedding. But I believe that before you can say "yes" at the altar, you should be able to answer--at least to some extent, with certainty--the questions above that you deem most important. It's because of these questions (and many many more) that saw my Facebook status going from Relationship to Single to Relationship to having no relationship status posted at all.

All this vacillation only illustrates all the more sharply the question I posed at the beginning, "Why are relationships so hard?" Why is it hard to fall in love and to stay in love, and why is it so difficult when you fall out of love, or end a relationship? Taking it one step further, why is marriage so difficult? I thought love conquered all..... These answers are hard to come by, but I offer this epiphany:

As far as I can tell, Love and Marriage and Relationships are so difficult because when you get to be older it becomes not only a question of company vs. solitude, but rather a question of salvation. We in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints believe in "Salvation," or the freeing from spiritual and physical bonds brought upon us by our lost and fallen state. With this interpretation in mind, all of God's children will one day be "saved," and like the Nephites before us, we can already count ourselves as such due to the merits and mercies of a loving Atoner. But those of us who have their eyes on the big "W," Exaltation and Godhood, realize that there really is no Salvation without Exaltation.

This term "No Salvation without Exaltation" has been used by apostles and prophets for decades now to underscore the importance of our end goal as a species and as children of a loving Heavenly Father, as well as the utter essentialness of marriage. Elder Bruce R. McConkie often said that "there is no greater thing that can be done in this world than to marry the right person, in the right place, under the right authority." And in a nutshell that's the reason dating and love can give us so much grief. Nothing can hoodwink the process of dating and praying and evaluating who is right for us because everything depends on it for Exaltation. Thus, we have numberless statements from prophets to young people everywhere that finding a spouse is the number one priority.

With this viewpoint before us, I am reminded of a talk--now famous--given by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. This talk is circulated amongst the missionaries at the MTC, and I think I heard it quoted no less than 800 times on my mission. He asks the question "Why is this so difficult?" and answers it (I'm paraphrasing): "I have thought long and hard about this, and it is my believe that missionary work is hard--" Notice he could have easily said dating, or marriage, "because Salvation is not a cheap experience. For one who suffered on Calvary's cross it was anything but easy. Why should it be easy for us?" He goes on. "Not to undermine the immeasurable pain our Savior felt in Gethsemane, I say we all must take a walk through the Garden and sweat a few drops of blood before we can truly know Him who did it all, and earn the prize."

There you have it. As crude as it may sound, the pain of love is a schoolmaster, a Gethsemane of sorts. Our Father in Heaven is all-knowing and loving beyond measure, but I believe that He employs a little tough love when the situation calls for it; not to torture us, but to help us rely on Him and turn to Him with our heartaches and our problems. He has given us a promise through his modern day prophets that everyone will be given a chance (or two or three or seventy times seven) to receive all the blessings of Exaltation through marriage. What we must do is hold fast to those promises, remembering that "a man cannot be saved in ignorance" and that "all things shall give thee experience."

On my mission I came across people who were so convinced that Salvation was nothing more than the confessing of Christ as our Savior, or the performance of good works. Through study and prayer I've come to learn that Salvation is extremely multi-faceted. We must confess Christ, pray always, repent in godly sorrow, do good works, obtain the blessings of the Priesthood, magnify our callings, and make eternal covenants. Like repentance, salvation isn't an event, but a process. As Nephi describes in the Book of Mormon, once we partake of the fruit we can't allow ourselves to wander forbidden paths; we must stay near "the tree" and honor our marriage forever. Only that path leads to Exaltation and thus, Salvation.

In the crucible of my trials and aware of one who weeps for me, I am comforted by this fact: that despite the almost unbearable pain love (and the loss thereof) can cause, I know that it is all for a wise purpose in Him who's business I strive to be about. The cleaner our motives and the stronger our faith, our trials will carve within us receptacles of love and empathy that will eventually lead us to that moment when we gaze on our loved ones in those temple mirrors that reflect onto eternity and forget the pains we thought would never pass.

Yes, many of us are in a relationship, and they are all of them complicated. The tears of loss stain the pillows of more than one person I know, and I can't think of a person who doesn't ask the hard questions about their potential in finding a spouse. But I know that God is mindful of a failed relationship just as much as a fallen sparrow; for both knew the sensation of how it was to fly.

The Dilemma

"There is no writing mood. If you can write when you're pissed off, then you can focus that energy and those emotions into your narrative. If you're elated, you can transfer those feelings to your audience. Writing is work, and you have to log in the hours. Sometimes it is painful, often it is rewarding."

My professor said it better, and Novakovick better than her, but the idea is still the same. A writer writes. It serves as their escape as well as their all-access pass; it's an extension of their voice, and as natural as breathing. Needless to say, I'm not there yet.

If I were to confess that blogging was my secret passion--something I got near orgasmic emotions from--than one glance by any casual wanderer into my camp would be enough to disprove me. And yet, like the tantalizing whisper of a lover, it calls me back, igniting hope that similar feelings will commemorate the next encounter. It is these thoughts that have haunted me for weeks now; and like a temptation, have pushed me to be good to my cause and my craft, knowing that in time they'll be good to me.

There may be no mood for writing, as every emotion powers the machine and feeds the behemoth, but can the same be said for other less abstract uses of our time? How about school, or work, or church? Writing has no mood, because writing has no excuse. If you want to be good, you write and write and write. And I guess in that sense, our various moods can't hold much sway over the other things. At least, that's what I've learned the past few weeks.

Before school started I scoured Logan like a phantom, haunting Main Street establishments with my eternal question: "Are you hiring?" Day after day I woke up with mission clear, and night after night I went to bed with mission failed. No one was hiring. How easy it would have been to stay in--all summer long I had slept in, gone to the gym, and watched 24. It was all I was in the mood for now. Any yet, I wanted a job. I needed one. And that desire erased my mood from the equation. There was no mood for finding a job, no ideal inspiration that I had to wait for before I was going to do it; it just had to get done.

The same can be said for school or church. I mean, the novelty wears off pretty quick once you hand in your first assignment, and it can certainly be hard sometimes to will yourself to Sunday school if you're feeling like you've just spent the last two years there. But after this Summer from Hell, I try and look at them as saviors in their own ways. The question is, what kind of student will I be? What kind of disciple? After Chamber Choir auditions yesterday, I realized that everything from the job hunt, to the homework, to the auditioning and even to the dating scene (or lack thereof) begged an answer to one over-arcing question. What are you made of?

I almost chuckled to myself as once again I returned to the theme of my search for self-improvement, and for this petty blog. In life's crux, where decisions must be made, this new inquiry carries an important relevance. What am I made of? Truly, that is the question.

Of course the argument can be made that I'm thinking too much about this; that I should just let life be lived. And I will. How else can I do it? But while this blog is not evidence that I spend all my time thinking of things I can or can't control, it can serve as evidence that at least I'm thinking at all. And each of these prisms of choice, light, and learning can be an opportunity to prove something. That I'm the master of my fate and the captain of my soul. And that I'm made of greater stuff than they think.

The Journey of Becoming

I had a singular experience a few days ago. I was standing next to a piano in the living room of a ginormous, vintage home in the Avenues, talking to an extraordinarily talented Asian-American about how to make good music. We were singing and playing and pouring ourselves over pages of sheet music, attempting to prepare ourselves for an upcoming concert we'd be participating in at the U of U later this next month. Spit was flying all over the room as my accompanist, voice teacher, and I were singing, discussing, annotating, marking, crossing-out, pointing, clapping, dancing, and dissecting our way through over 100 pages of music all in the attempt of making something that someone would enjoy and remember. Notes and chords were hovering over everyone in the room like a thick fog, and Italian maxims like poco ritardando and adagio were practically falling from the sky. As my accompanist and I talked about where the music was going and where the musical climaxes may be, he said something that struck me.

"See Spencer, this is what you do in the music department." He of course was referring to college. "We're past plunking out parts on a piano. Now we become artists." It was exhilarating, even if it was a far cry from Mozart or Brahms, James Taylor or Sting, or Steeley Dan. A feeling that keeps me coming back to the piano when I don't play, or singing when my musical ear has checked out. Yes, President Uchtdorf, creation is what it's all about. There's something about making music that is so fundamental to life; even the musically disabled among us hum in their spare time. To those who know me, a cheekbone-lifting, eyebrow-raising, larynx-monitoring, chin-checking, soft pallet-policing, diaphragm-expanding, posture-correcting Spencer conjures up no strange picture. And I guess that's because we are all made of the very things that empower us. What is man? Blood, water, Spirit, energy, matter, love, and music. A perfect blending of elements to create the offspring of Deity; a child of God.

Needless to say, I left the house feeling pretty good. It's a feeling similar to leaving the gym after a good workout or even writing a fun blog; improving yourself or your talents is enjoyable, and you're always satisfied the finished product.

On this same vein but a bit removed from the music scene, our family has committed itself to running the Ragnar next year. Talk about a quest for improvement. This race alone has grown to represent a positive change in each person's life individually and in our family's collectively. The scene started innocently enough: a cool, summer's night and a congregation of family members sitting in a circle, each with his own red, plastic cup of Coke. We had been cracking jokes all night. I love that about my family; we all have the same sense of humor and we're all funny as hell. The day had been nice and we were all enjoying each other's company; a luxury that more or less remains elusive due to the fact that we're scattered all around the country. There had been scattered talks about getting together more often and then Eric dropped the bomb on us. In hopes that this would resurrect our annual family reunions and bring us closer together, he proposed that we run the marathon. I was gung ho from the beginning; others, not so much. But we decided to give it a go and the rest is history, and future. I have entered upon a quest of self-improvement to fight and overcome the Ragnar (which honestly sounds like Trogdor's temperamental uncle). It'll take all year and hopefully when all is said and done, I'll have created a new and better me.

What a time we live in. All roads are open, and all resources available. Who knows what the future holds; as a shot in the dark it waits for us. But the journey is in the making of yourself. Walking around the college campus today has taught me one thing about education and desires, the world and self. I think it dawned on me as I saw a couple trying too hard to fit a cliche: if we spend our whole lives trying to find ourselves, we'll miss our chance to be ourselves. We can be constantly improving and creating a better self, but we must know who that "self" is first or all we're doing is flying blind. Michelangelo once said in so many words when asked why he just spent hours staring at a block of marble "I have found the statue inside, now I'm just figuring out how to free it." So too, are we. With all that we make, build, or break (to use Bono's language) so becomes us.

"The opposite of War is not Peace, it's Creation." -- Jonathan Larson

Learning from Lavender

On Saturday I saw a woman; well, two women actually. They were standing calf-deep in a spiral maze of Lavender. Now, I concede that seeing women standing in flower beds is not a rarity, even for a borderline hermit like me. I mean, I'm sure you saw one today; but these women were different. My Dad's birthday was the next day and my mother had been lobbying for quite a while to go to the Lavender Festival in Mona, Utah which falls on or around my Father's big day each year. The festival starts off with a 5k run which ends in a sort of "Floral Jamboree" held on a farm nestled between the mountains where anyone and everyone come to celebrate all things purple. The park, looking like the pleasant, yet somewhat derelict spawn of Wheeler Farm and the set of "A Knight's Tale" was crawling and teeming with excited and chatty women, towing their hyperactive children in one hand and their dazed and seemingly Valium-riddled husbands in the other. The festival boasted a "you make it, you take it" policy on their Lavender wreaths, bouquets, and bath salts -- each station outfitted with all the garden tools and purple foliage your heart could desire. To the north a neglected bluegrass band, and to the west (in my dad's opinion) what looked like the Elders' quorum's solution for those poor Novocaine-induced husbands - a sort of mock western ghost town complete with a High Noon shootout by Lavender-garbed buckaroos.

As I took a look around at the Lavender visage that lay before me, I did what any other self-respecting twenty-one year old man would do: I retreated behind my Aviator sunglasses and decided to tackle this monster on my own without the accompaniment of my parents who at the moment were very intrigued by the chamomile bushes. I snatched my Droid out of my pocket and took some photos of the pond, the stalks, and the blacksmith's shop. There was a fairy walking around nearby and everywhere you looked you could see overweight grandmas clutching their bouquets of Lavender stems. The sun was brutal as I made my way to the edge of the park, past the jousting range and through a mock-up sort of village.

On the far end of the festival I saw a sign: "The Lavender Labyrinth." The sign went on to describe how the labyrinth was used in many eastern cultures to symbolize one's path through life; completely unique from any other's and possessive of relaxing and soothing properties. I stared for a while at the maze, which was giving off a vibe reminiscent of the Salt Lake's "Spiral Jetty." Two women not too far off were gazing at the labyrinth intently; they looked like "true believers." Feeling somewhat tired and in need of some aroma therapy I started off into the maze.

I enjoyed the feeling of the Lavender on my calves and liked seeing the bees flying around pollinating the flowers. The two women were following me at their own speeds, stopping to pick a sprig and smell it, or putting their arms out to feel their fingers glide across the tops of the Lavender. Without really recognizing it I started to do it as well. Once I reached the center of the labyrinth I felt pretty relaxed and took a moment to enjoy my surroundings: rolling hills and blue skies, with buffalo romping around in a pen just a little bit further down the fence; a real Larry McMurtry dream. My two companions were making a steady orbit around my position as they made their way through the labyrinth and having reached me, stopped to chat a little.

"I've never made this walk when all the Lavender is in bloom," one said.

--"What, really?" I thought. "Why would you walk this at any other time? You'd just be walking circles in a bunch of weeds..."

"Me neither," the second replied. "The flowers are beautiful this year." For no apparent reason I decided to say something to them.

"It's nice out today, isn't it?" I said lamely. The first woman rounded in my direction.

"Oh you don't work here?" she answered. I looked around me. I was used to being mistaken as store employees on my mission because of my name tag but today I was just wearing some cargo shorts and a tweed hat.

"No..." I replied slowly.

"Oh well, did you find anything in the Labyrinth? You know what it means right?"

"Well, I read the sign..."

"Oh yeah, well great then. Because this is supposed to be like, your journey through life and you're supposed to like, find yourself and learn about your existence and..." She trailed off. Perhaps she realized how silly she sounded.

We chatted a minute about being in the center of the Labyrinth and I offered to let them take my place and enjoy the culmination of their path which they did after trying to convince me that I could stay longer if I required it. As I started walking backwards now through the maze I looked at the second, more quiet woman standing in the center. She had her hands crossed over her chest like she was lying in a casket and her eyes were closed. She was obviously finding Nirvana or something in the Lavender. As I stared at her I had a thought which all at once made me envy her. She's found herself. She knows where she's at and where she's going. Lavender or not, this woman knows who she is.

I took off my sunglasses and shed the Joe Cool attitude. As I stood in the maze I realized that like a schooner on the ocean I was lost, and had been since returning from my mission. Life had lost it's familiar color when I had come home and like a ship docked in the Panama Canal, I was in a way station of my life; always waiting for the next gate to open that would take me from mission to life, from life to college, and so on. True a path had been laid before my feet, but where it would lead me or how it would be, I couldn't say; life had become a real shot in the dark. And yet looking at this woman in the middle of the maze I could see that for at least one moment in time everything in her world had found it's center.

The day crept on and we had time to pull some flowers, raid the gift shop, and get sunburned and yet my mind always returned to the woman. What would it take? It had to be simple. For her, all it took was a lame maze of knee-high Lavender. I figured that while I was on the search I would start this blog to give my thoughts a sounding board and perhaps help me reach my center along the way.

As we pulled out of the festival I felt a tinge of gratitude for what the Lavender taught me that day. The journey for self starts simply and ends simply, until the winds blow or the stars twinkle and our lives change once more and demand that we enter the Labyrinth again, always in search for what matters most; ourselves.

Dear Reader, good luck.