Family Ties

“[...] I grew up out of that strange, dreamy childhood of mine and went into the world of reality. I met with experiences that bruised my spirit - but they never harmed my ideal world. That was always mine to retreat into at will. I learned that that world and the real world clashed hopelessly and irreconcilably; and I learned to keep them apart so that the former might remain for me unspoiled. I learned to meet other people on their own ground since there seemed to be no meeting place on mine. I learned to hide the thoughts and dreams and fancies that had no place in the strife and clash of the market place. I found that it was useless to look for kindred souls in the multitude; one might stumble on such here and there, but as a rule it seemed to me that the majority of people lived for the things of time and sense alone and could not understand my other life. So I piped and danced to other people's piping - and held fast to my own soul as best I could.”

Lucy Maud Montgomery

I remember when I was about three, maybe four, going to bed with Anne of Green Gables clutched in my hands. I would turn the pages endlessly, spotting words I recognized, pouring over the pictures, wishing more than anything in the world to be old enough and smart enough to read that book.

It's one of those fortunate books where every time I read it it's like the first time again. I get the same excitement. The same surprises and a few new ones. Every time I read it, it's like coming home.

Which is a mercy, because occasionally "home" for me is a place where I feel rather set apart. I don't think I really realized this for myself until I left home and had the chance to have the luxury of preference. I realized that many of the standard things we just "do" in my family weren't things I hated, but would never choose for myself. For example, most of my family would gladly choose a tropical vacation with hours spent on the beach sipping virgin strawberry daiquiris and wearing nothing but a swim suit for a week, but I would choose the rainy northwest with its green hills and many trees and beaches not made for swimming but for sitting. I'd go to art museums and theaters and used bookstores instead of bowling or game nights. My family loves a good chick flick or inspirational sports movie, but in the last few years I've realized that I'm a bit of a movie snob (much to the inconvenience of others) and prefer movies that are artistic and thought provoking over the popular "escapist" fare most people prefer. Many times I find myself feeling like I don't quite belong.

But, then, before I get too carried away down that path I have to remember that there are things I share. My grandfather's love of teaching and jazz music. My other grandfather's love of work. Love of travel and writing and the gospel from both sides of the family. My grandmother's love of dance. My mother's love of harmony and cleanliness. My dad's love of order and his determination. My great grandparents and their love of music and theater. Photography from my uncle.

My particular set of genes may be a bit peculiar and my ideal world perhaps a bit strange, but I am not, at least, a complete anomaly. I am still "a part of all that I have met."

One for the Memory Book

When I was young, summertime meant a trip to visit the grandparents. Until the last half a decade, my grandparents lived within a handful of miles of each other, which was incredibly convenient. Inevitably, though, we'd stay with my mom's side of the family. It was a practical choice - they had more room, more toys, and a generally more kid friendly place to be. This meant that visits with dad's side of the family were always more formal, forced and - to a kid wanting a movie to watch that wasn't about airplanes or the history of Utah - quite boring.

It wasn't until I grew up a bit that I started appreciating visits with both sides of the family for the different benefits they provide. Mom's side of the family comes with impulsive trips, casual chaos, and lots of silliness. Dad's side of the family comes with intellectual stimulai, good food, and determination.

It wasn't until I went to college that I think I fully appreciated how lucky I was to have two sets of living grandparents. Even at eighteen they seemed, if not invincible, then at least young enough to not be in any real danger of death anytime soon. The majority of my friends did not have four living grandparents, or at least not four living grandparents who were all still independent and relatively healthy. Grandparents who travel and watch Napoleon Dynamite and buy iPads and Wiis (no joke.)

But in recent years it has slowly dawned on me that I would be naive and ungrateful to ignore the opportunities I have with my grandparents. They are limited, after all. I watch hands shake as they eat at dinner time. I see tables with medicine and hear about more surgeries and count my lucky stars that those days in my life are not in the immediate future. But they will be. Give me another forty years.

I say this because this Thanksgiving I've been with my dad's parents. I've not spent Thanksgiving with them since my uncle died twelve years ago. My dad's parents are particularly appreciative when I come to visit them. Unlike my grandparents in the north who have family decently close by to come visit them often and regular family vacations, my grandparents in the south live in relative seclusion from family. It means a lot to them when I come.

It's not a complete picnic. My grandpa shares my love of language but is often oblivious to the effect that he has on the people around him when he gets on a storytelling spree. The first day I was here, for example, a "quick question" turned into an hour and a half long string of stories and anecdotes. It can be utterly exhausting to keep up with him. He wants me to look at his stories and listen to his poetry and I would selfishly rather spend time quietly reading a book and relaxing from the stresses of my job.

But when I step back from my own selfish desires I realize that the inconvenience of now won't be around forever. I don't want to regret the chance to hear my grandpa's convictions about life and to miss out on the chance to collect some memories from him. So I tried a different tactic this weekend: I started asking him questions before he could ask me. I asked him about how he met my grandma (at a dance). What it was about her that he liked (she could dance well and is, apparently, a good kisser.) I talked to him about the town he grew up in and the traditions of his house. Slowly, I'm starting to get a glimpse of the personalities of my great grandparents, something I've never had before, and what my grandpa was like as a boy.

I can still say with honesty that three hours of conversation with my grandpa too many times in a row can be exhausting - but I can also say that I treasure knowing that my grandpa is proud of me, and cares enough to want to share his story with me. Who could blame him? Everyone wants to be remembered.

For Bob

As a warning - I'm not really sure what the purpose of this particular post is. Usually I have some sort of goal or idea I'm focused on.

Today's a little different. It's November. This year marks another anniversary since the death of my uncle way back when I was in junior high. Twelve years.

To be honest, it isn't something I think about all that often. Bob and I didn't have a terribly formal or frequent relationship. I didn't know anything about his personal life and only really remember seeing him two or three times in my life, even though I know it was more than that in actuality. I remember the last time I saw him the Christmas before he died - how excited I was, and how excited he was, to see us. There's a great picture I have of him carrying me and one or two of my cousins all at once. I remember going home that night and feeling so terribly lucky to have an uncle as cool and fun as Bob.

I also remember how still my house seemed the night I came home from a babysitting job just under a year later. It was silent. But not silent because my younger siblings were sleeping - that awful slow motion type of silence. I remember my parents coming downstairs from their bedroom and my dad looking about twenty years older than I thought of him as being. I'd never seen him like that before. It was jarring. Dad never lost control like that - at least not to grief.

I remember going out to the funeral and gradually learning bits and pieces about what had really happened, according to my cousin, at least, who had either heard it from her parents (who didn't censor as much as mine) or made it up for shock value (both of which are very possible.) I remember feeling totally unsure of how to respond to everything, feeling in a kind of limbo because everyone around me was more sad than I was and feeling pressure to do. . .something about it.

In the years that have followed since Bob's death I've learned more about him. He was Bipolar - manic depressant, they call it. Active and reckless, never quite settling down. High on life one day and contemplating suicide the next. He was an avid sportsman and photographer - when I think of Bob, I think of the outdoors. It's kind of laughable to think of him at a cubicle, actually. In my mind, I don't ever picture Bob still. I think he'd be bored by it.

When I was younger I took up photography and my dad let me use Bob's camera. It was a beautiful piece of machinery that camera, and I took care of it like it was sacred and only gave it up last year when I could finally afford a digital camera that could perform as well as the old film one did. Every time I used the old one - and when I use the new one too - I feel like I'm stepping in where my uncle left off. This imaginary relationship I've built with him since his death that I never had with him in life always feels so close when I'm taking pictures. Maybe it is all in my head. But I think he'd like to know that I take pictures for him.

That wasn't all I inherited from Bob, though. I don't suffer from depression the way that he did by a long shot - but there are days every month or so, like yesterday, where I get a glimpse of understanding. Days when I have to step back from the lethargy and despair and recognize that, logically, nothing in the day has been that despair worthy. Days when I force my way through knowing that, for me at least, the next day will be better, because my "dark days" don't last nearly as long, or come nearly as often.

I don't think Bob would be, or is, happy to know that the legacy of depression still runs in the veins of my family. But I do think he would be happy to know that since his death, we have been able to put a name to it, and that makes it easier to fight. I know, now, how suicide rips at a family - but I also know the spiritual strength and care from the Lord that does come when tragedy strikes so unexpectedly. It is an awful way to gain that understanding, but I am glad that I have it.

So, Bob - this November as I spend Thanksgiving with my own brother and your parents, I want you to know that I am grateful for you. Because your memory has inspired me to fight. To not give in when days are hard. To get outside more and tell my family I love them more and - most of all - to love myself enough to tackle my weaknesses honestly and confidently.

The Perfect Storm

Once upon a time the perfect storm came and tried to ruin everything.

It involved about forty hours of grading essays in a week, doing everything possible to have them done before a trip home.

It involved putting off projects and readings that needed to be done in favor of pushing forward with every last inch of sanity to finish those essays and get them back to students before their next essay test.

It involved death bed repenters and desperate parents wanting to put bandaids on gaping wounds.

It involved a frantic Friday after school rushing to get things done and make it to the airport without falling asleep at the wheel. Boarding a plane and feeling like - finally - I'd have an excuse to relax.

It involved a delayed - and then cancelled flight. Followed by a missed airport shuttle. Followed by a sleepless night in a cold and kitschy hotel room. Followed by a way too early morning. Followed by a flight in the world's smallest airplane. Followed by a two hour ride home instead of a fifteen minute home.

It involved a not nearly as relaxing and enjoyable trip for me or for others in my family as it should have been. Long week + long weekend = an unfortunate conglomeration of out of control events (translation: I was not in the world's most enthusiastic mood. Further translation: I think the weekend was a disappointment for those, including myself, who like me slightly better rested and fed.)

It then involved returning home to an individual blaming me for purposefully grading hard to prove a point and more or less claiming that I am not intelligent enough to do the job I have.

It involved me wanting very much to throw up the proverbial white BANNER of surrender. To yell to the world that I cannot possibly be everything for everyone, or do all the right things, or please anyone, and that I may as well not try any more, because what was the point? My imperfections felt so very close to the surface and frustrating for me and inconvenient for other people, and it was beyond my mental and physical stamina to handle it any more.

But then. . .

I drove home and saw a sight that looked almost identical to this.

I took a little time to visit . . .

(She's been missing me lately. It's been mutual.)

And suddenly life doesn't seem so unconquerable any more.

I'm still imperfect. I'm still overworked. And stubborn. And maybe a little delusional sometimes. But mostly, I think, I'm like the majority of people in the world trying to get by the best they can - sometimes meeting success and sometimes not. Rough weeks happen. Sometimes weeks are more overwhelming than others. But they end. And we move onward and upward and, with any luck, gain more than just some sore muscles by the time we reach the top of the peak.

"They should have taken the bus."

I saw Up yesterday with my family. That makes time number three, by the way. Pixar is completely brilliant. If you haven't seen it, go, and stop reading now because I make no promises about spoiling things.

The movie is not what I expected it to be. Granted, I don't know what anyone really expects from a movie that was advertised as a film about a guy who hooks up balloons to his house, but the best thing about Pixar films may be the fact that I never know exactly what kind of movie I'm going to get going in. The advertising is a little deceptive.

This is probably never more sharp than for Up, which, for all intents and purposes, isn't really a kids film. Sure, there are some gimmicky moments that are certainly geared for a younger audience, but, on the whole, the film is very adult in nature. Carl begins life as a would-be explorer. His adventures with a blue balloon take him to the somewhat more elaborate "ship" of Ellie - a girl who shares his obsession with explorer Charles Muntz but happens to be more bold in the way she goes about life. The two form a friendship that ends in a marriage and a wonderful life together. In perhaps the most brilliant two minutes of film I have seen in years, the audience views what must be at least forty to fifty years of marriage and the ups and downs they have - setting up house - picnics - wanting to have children but not being able to - planning trips to Paradise Falls that never quite make it because of other expenses, and Ellie's eventual death. In the three times I've seen the film now, I'm still amazed at how quickly the audience goes from laughing hysterically to complete and total silence. Even the youngest kids in the room know that something has shifted thanks to the score (well done, Michael Giacchino.) It's beautiful and heartbreaking - and they never make it to Paradise Falls. Ellie's lifelong dream of setting up house in the middle of no where never quite got fulfilled and Carl is left alone.

It is partly because of this that he gets the idea to balloon his house to Venezuela. The rest of the movie follows as Carl tries desperately to walk his house (literally) over to Paradise Falls along with stow-away Wilderness Explorer Russell who has never been really camping a day in his life but wants to earn his "assisting the elderly" badge. Russell is worthy of a completely different blog post so for now, I'm going to stick to one of my favorite moments in the film - as they're walking through the woods, Russell mentions to Carl that the wilderness is different than he expected, and that he's decided that the boring stuff is what he likes more, because he remembers it. He talks about going to get ice cream with his father and counting cars that go by the shop based on colors.

This relates to a moment in the film when Carl comes across Ellie's "Adventure Book" near the end of the film. At the beginning of the film she shows Carl the "Stuff I'm Going to Do" section - a blank part of the book where she was planning on filling in all her adventures. For almost the entire movie, that little blank section of scrap-book was the source of all of Carl's guilt. But then he actually looks at the pages and sees that Ellie has filled them in with all the "boring" stuff. Eating dinner. Picnics. Reading together. Everything that they did for day to day life. Her adventure - grand as it had begun when she was a kid - had shifted into something more fulfilling.

This idea of adventures being better in the every-day part of life has been on my mind quite a bit lately. I've been thinking about the goals I have for myself and the way that most people see those goals as wasting my education or a chance for a good career. But then I think about my family - I think about the parts of my family that I love the most. I love that my dad goes out of his way, even on Father's Day, to make breakfast for us before church. I love sitting with everyone half piled on the same couch so that we can watch old family videos and eat popcorn together. I even love being piled into the same small van for endless road trips around the country. We don't have the most elaborate family adventures together, but it's never mattered because the trip itself isn't as important as just spending time together.

So to the small child in front of me who proclaimed after Carl and Russell should have taken the bus to avoid the storm that tossed their make-shift hot air balloon house around - you might be right. But where would be the fun in that? And where would be the movie in that? Carl's lesson at the end is a lesson well learned - when we get where we thought we always wanted to be, we end up sitting in our easy chair and saying. . . "now what?" Unless, of course, the journey is seen as an important part of the destination.

Not Quite Valentine's Day Musings

I spent Valentine's with my grandparents this year. I probably should have gone to my ward Valentine's Day Dance but for some reason I'm feeling stubborn and would rather spend my time lounging around in my pajamas. Which is more or less what I've done all day. I watched all four hours of Jane Eyre this morning. Mr. Rochester is utterly wonderful.

Which leads me to a long-overdue blog post. I've been sitting in front of the computer for about two hours trying to decide between watching a movie on Hulu and (I know, you can mock me later), rifling through various fan-fictions I used to obsess over a few years ago. I got a good laugh at myself and decided I ought to do something more productive.

Partly due to the season and partly because of a (brief) increase in romantic activity in my life I've been thinking about the curse of being single in Provo. It all reminds me of one of Bill Cosby's sketches where he says something about how parents love their children but they want to get them OUT of the house. That is, as far as I can tell, a common experience in the Single's Ward life. Not all wards, mind you. My ward right now isn't nearly as bad as some I've been in. But in the Facebook universe we live in where people can advertise their relationship status to infinite numbers of people with the click of a mouse, it's starting to feel like we're creating our own tabloid lives with a relationship obsessed audience. If you're single people expect you to either be defensive about it and to make fun of your status in an attempt to say you don't care(guilty) or expect you to mope or . . . I don't know. And if you're dating someone, wahoo! Congratulations! How long has it been? Have you looked at rings yet? What kind of cake are you getting?

The reason I bring all this up (yet again) is because of a discussion we had in one of my classes on Friday about the way girls in the church are educated and the huge dichotomy it brings up, especially in such a concentrated area of people scrounging around for their mate. I can't speak for boys of the church (obviously), but it seems to me that most of the girls and single women of the church are taught that their virtue and worth is greater when they are virgins. Who hasn't been to a lesson where a well meaning teacher has chewed up a piece of gum and then offered it to someone by way of object lesson. "No one wants your chewed gum." Ouch. Not that I'm condoning sexual promiscuity. But there is this extreme that is rather stifling - a tug of war between one definition of chastity as being equal to virginity and the push to graduate from Single's Ward High eternally tied. But everything should happen in the right time and the right place. Isn't that a better definition of chastity? Participating in activities at the right time and in the right place?

Which is my point for the day. It's no wonder so many girls I know are simultaneously obsessed with dating and completely terrified of it as well. The pressure from outside forces and the ever illusive Facebook status change and online relationship obsessed stalkerazzi wanting to know your every move is huge. If you let it get to you. (Her relationship status changed! Oh no! I wonder what happened?! I'm going to send messages to half of her friends to figure out why.) (Again. . . probably guilty. No one is immune!)

Sure - it would be great to have celebrated Valentine's Day with my sweetheart, but there will be many years ahead of me at some point for that. I am happy with where I am. I'm excited for what the next year has in store for me. I have a family that loves me and good friends. With that in mind, I wish you all a belated Happy Valentine's Day and hope that whatever your situation, you spent it with people you love.

Excuse me for a second - I'm going to pass out.

I have been wanting to write an essay on this topic for a while but I haven't quite been able to work my head around it. The old essayist in me wants to create a giant metaphor out of everything but I feel like putting a bow on a box of thoughts isn't quite doing this topic justice. It's more complicated than that.

I'll explain.

But first, a story.

I went to a dermatologist yesterday for a few routine checks and things that aren't any of your business. Nothing big. They're putting me on an oral medication that would do great damage to a baby if I were to get pregnant in the next five months (ha!) so they are required by law to test my blood once every month until the end of the year. No big deal. Needles and blood don't bother me. I don't really like them, but I'm not mortally afraid of them. That being said, my appointment was at about 11:10. By the time I went in for lab work it was around noon. I hadn't eaten since seven that morning and even then it was just a bowl of cereal. Thanks to some genes from my mother, I have a kind of minor case of hypoglycemia that makes me feel somewhat shaky when I haven't eaten for a while. I also have low blood pressure, which makes my circulation somewhat poor and. . . basically it was a recipe for disaster. I walked into the room and thought -"I'm going to faint in here. They're going to take my blood, and I'm going to pass out. Shoot." I told them that I hadn't eaten and they said it wasn't that much blood and I'd be fine and. . . whatever. I knew I was going to faint. And I did. Not a very pleasant sensation on the whole and it left me completely out of it for the rest of the day. It takes me a while to get over these things.

I had a kind of morbid fascination with fainting when I was young (er. . . well, up until about last November) because it seemed like such a romantic thing to do. Anne Shirley had - once again - corrupted me with her use of the word "romance". But it really isn't very fun. Trust me on this.

The first time I fainted was last year the day before Thanksgiving. I had come up with my mom and my brothers to visit my grandmother in a care center that she was staying in while she recovered from extensive back surgery. My grandmother is one of the most giving, hard working people I've ever met - but there she was, looking rather yellow in nothing but one of those awful hospital gowns and a robe eating like a baby with my grandfather spoon feeding her what she could eat because she was too weak to lift the fork for herself. "You have served me for many years, Margie," he said, "It is a pleasure to be able to serve you now."

It was horrible and tragic. It was easily the first moment in my life when I have literally come to terms with mortality. Keep in mind that outside of my uncle (whom I didn't know very well) and my great grandparents (that I also didn't know very well) - no one in my immediate family has ever died. And none of them have - in my memory -ever been seriously ill either. One of my uncles had cancer when I was very young but I hardly remember that and we were living too far away to see what he went through. The idea of people I love being so ill scared me. I watched my grandfather feeding my grandmother and watched her struggle to gnaw on peaches I felt sick. It was about this point when I fainted. It was probably tied also to the lack of food I'd had that day - but if I was being honest I would attribute it more to the horror of seeing my grandmother so sick than my hunger.

I remember waking up rather late on Thanksgiving morning. I had hit my head on a bar of the hallway of the care center when I fainted and my head ached. I felt rather disoriented. I looked in the mirror of the bedroom I was staying in and my skin color looked exactly like my grandmothers.

The next day we went bowling. I heard my aunt laugh and I thought it was Grandma Newman. I saw my aunt's manicured nails and remembered that both my grandmothers make an effort to get their nails done before they go out. My Grandma Newman had gone to get hers done before she went in for surgery, even. Listening to my aunt talk reminded me of my grandmother - in the way she laughed and the way she phrased her words and the inflection she used. . .

I still haven't worked my head around it. If I were going to stamp a metaphor on all this I'd find a way to talk about the resilience of Newman women or something, or maybe my regret at not feeling as connected with my dad's side of the family as I do with my mother's. . . but that feels too forced. Maybe that's why I don't really feel ready to write anything about what happened yet - because the story doesn't really have an "ending". It was a short, fifteen minute period of time with little leading to it, or away from it. I'm still not sure what to make of it all - but I do know that at some point - this streak of mine will end. My family members will die or get sick - it happens to everyone. I'm just glad we have been blessed and protected thus far.

A Study of Contrasts

I'm going to give you a bit of warning. This post has the potential to enter some cheese. I'm struggling to find a way to say what I want to say that doesn't come across as overly sentimental or over reaching for profoundness. We'll see how it works out.

Tonight we all gathered with some family friends to enjoy dinner and talking and singing carols among other things. It was wonderful. My extended family includes so many wonderful people I'm not related to by blood. Looking around at everyone, I felt very blessed to have all of my family healthy and safe and happy this time of year. Especially because of what happened later tonight after we had finished eating dinner. We got word that a family in our stake discovered that their little baby has leukemia this afternoon and had to drive to a hospital a few hours away that is better equipped to treat him in an ambulance. Their boy is about three - things aren't really looking good.

What a contrast to my Christmas Eve. I made it safely home while thousands of people are stranded in airports all over the country because of horrible weather. I have family and friends that are safe and happy and well. I will wake up tomorrow morning and spend the day in my pajamas while this family spends their day in a hospital - if things go well. That just kills me. It makes me feel so sick.

I'm not sure how this next thought connects, but bear with me. One of my favorite Christmas songs is "What Child is This". The tune is haunting because of the major/minor chord shifts, but I'm not up on music theory so I'm not going to get into it. Really, there are only a few versions of this song I really appreciate because (unfortunately) in most versions of the song, the artists cut out the second and third chorus and just sing the first one three times. As far as Christmas songs go, that's the one that sums up the whole Christmas message to me. It's a study of the life of the Savior, really. The words tell of his birth and crucifixion - and end with a mother singing her baby a lullaby. The single most important event that ever occurred in the history of the earth - and it's contrasted with this image of a mother putting her baby to sleep. It's beautiful. It's a child and a mother together on Christmas. It happens all over the globe every year.

I suppose, then, this is my way of wishing all of you (wherever you are, and if there even are any of you) a Merry Christmas. I hope that your families are safe and well, and I hope that the spirit of the Savior will be with you.

(See? I told you it would be cheesy.)

What I did during Education Week...

The following are two little spats of England-style writing I did during Education Week-prepare yourself for nonsense. These are unedited stream-of-thought writing experiments.

22 August:

I'm ditching out on a class which is probably not a good sign since school hasn't started yet. I took one look at the crowded classroom and had a few thoughts consisting of "no way", "too many people" and "fire hazard". That would have been an interesting theory to test. Run into the room and yell fire. Instead I decided to do something else and now I'm writing nonsense on a piece of paper that was supposed to be filled with the key to getting my spiritual life back in order and my hand is cramped and I'm frustrated because I can't hand-write nearly as fast as I can type and this was so much easier (if more romantic?) than when I wrote on my computer, but for all that my cramped and awful writing is hardly romantic either. So there it is. I am solution-less. (What was the problem?)

Campus is a surreal kind of place this time of year. Normally this spot is crowded with people studying or making out or talking with friends only now it's just me and a mother with her two girls and none of us is studying or making out.

I just stopped. I killed my groove. I started staring off and thinking about unpacking and buying groceries since I have no food and how the JFSB courtyard is supposed to resemble the cloisters of places like Christ Church or Westminster and it kind of does only not enough to be a sanctuary and just enough to make me homesick (even though England is only my imaginary home now). If I ever go back it will probably only be for a few days or maybe two weeks but never for much longer and certainly not forever which makes me sad because I will never hike those moors again and all I want to do right now is pull my hair back, grab and apple when the hostel cafeteria staff lady isn't looking and hike 18 miles or so on the Pennine Way with 30 of the best people on this earth. England is all I can think about and dream about and it makes my writing redundant and my life unsatisfactory and I miss England. This cloister-knock off isn't English. It needs grass instead of stone, for one thing. And the table I'm sitting at shaded by an umbrella will have to go. Only stone benches. The fountain can stay but it will need to be less modern-arty and more Baroque. All the offices and classes need medieval-izing as well. All these trees in stone planters are way out (it's a little horrifying to think about). No. No-this place is nice but the vending machines don't have Cadbury and my purse has quarters and dimes in it and I have make-up on and I'm not in England any more and the trip I worked for and dreamed about and anticipated is gone in the blink of an eye. Two months ago today, actually, I was on an airplane. Absurd. I relate all the days now to what I was doing in England at the time. Life is supposed to be greener on the other side, but in this case it actually is.

August 23rd

I heard two girls in the Wilk today using very fake British accents and it made me mad. Considering that I could hardly claim to be an authority on all things British (though heaven knows I've tried), particularly with accents, I probably shouldn't talk but they were fake and I was offended and my thought was "I could do better". Pride. And there really is a difference between the movement and action and gesture habits between Brits and Americans. Something less of a strut and more poise...or maybe a different kind of strut (because there is definitely still a strut).

See. It's all I write about. I swear it's not all I think about-I think about many things. But turning on my writing brain seems to generate my England brain on auto pilot and once I start it's the death of me. I wish I could rewind and do it again. But it won't do to dwell on it. From where I sit now I won't ever get my fill of England. Unless I moved there and got a job and had to pay taxes and things-but I won't go back in the way I did and that hurts almost more than the thought of going back. Two weeks isn't enough! And the odds of really living there aren't really great. Maybe I'll go to grad school there.

I found out today that after two years my parents are dismantling my room and painting it and giving it to my younger brother. I think I'd have been alright with it if it had been my sister. She belongs to a room of girlish little dreams and goals and ambitions but now those dreams are being painted over and Wendy has officially been kicked out of the nursery. That part of my life is being packed away into boxes. I don't know if I even want to go home for Christmas because my room-my beloved room with the beautiful window and canopied bed-won't ever be mine again. It will have dirty moldy towels on the floors and footballs in the corners.

Broken Record

I said I'd be back with more Harry Potter movie reviewing but after reading Orson Scott Card's review of the movie I don't feel the need to, since the man has (and much more eloquently than I could, I might add) said exactly what I wanted to say. So rather than give a more in depth viewing of the movie analysis after my second time around, I'm going to do what we did through all of England on our study abroad: synthesize everything. Or bobbette everything if you want the other vocab word.

I learned in England not to go anywhere without paper, especially to plays and movies and concerts and things because if I didn't have a notebook handy I'd forget what I wanted to say. It's easy enough to make those notes in classes or on campus-or other places when there aren't stories to follow but seeing plays without a notebook is hard-there's too much going on to remember that one line that you liked or the one scene that touched you. As a result, I've written down the lines that got to me in one way or another when I watched the movie today.

Like OSC says, it's interesting how intelligent this movie is. There's so much there to consider. This movie touched me in ways the book didn't. The book is so laced with humor that, at times, I don't know if I really felt the seriousness of the situation. Or the cruelty. Seeing is different than reading though-I'm thinking particularly of two scenes that were in the book. The first is the detention scene with Harry-that first one when you first see Umbridge's satisfied smile and the words being etched on Harry's hand. Goodness...you know, I love Umbridge as a character. she's a brilliant villain. Reading her makes me admire Jo's ability to create two toned characters that are both humorous and villainous-really meaty characters you can sink your teeth into. But seeing her made me feel sick inside. That scene unnerved me in ways that it didn't when I read it. Maybe this is because I'm thinking more about becoming a teacher and have all these massive ideas on what public education should be-but hearing Umbridge tell Harry that "you know deep down inside you deserve to be punished"-ugh. The other scene was seeing Trelawny be sacked. A good portion of this is probably because the director decided to take the scene seriously-I seem to remember it being slightly comical in the book-but Emma Thompson is so brilliant that seeing her half trip over her suitcase made that sick feeling come back. Harry is right when he tells Hermione that whatever "this" is, it isn't simple.

These books are much more complex than people give them credit for. Yes, they're housed in the children's section, but they don't deserve to be any more, I don't think. Or people should stop thinking of them simply as children's literature. Like it's degrading. Think of how many incredible children's books there are out there that teach really powerful, deep lessons-much better than any serialized romance or crummy thriller you'd find in the regular Fiction section. Charlotte's Web and Bridge to Terabithia, for example-they deal very seriously with what it is to have friendship and what it means to face death. The Giver. Tuck Everlasting. The Boxcar Children. All these books about children who are faced with really serious situations and decisions-whether or not to drink a water that will make you live forever or face death-how to survive without parents-and we shun them as books that don't make children think? Make people think? Harry Potter is no different. People shun them aside as children's literature in the worst sense of the phrase because they are fantasy and involve children-but these books make people think in ways that I would wager more than half the books in the fiction section at Barns and Noble could.

This movie brings some of those themes out-I definitely left the theater both times with things to consider. Take two of the lines from the movie for example-Umbridge telling her class that they'll learn about defense in a "secure risk free environment" and Sirius saying "what's life without a bit of risk". We had lots of discussion about risk on our study abroad. I'm not a really risky person. I am, in a way since I do theater-every audition is a risk-but I don't really see it in that way any longer because it's something I just do. So what are they saying about risk? Because neither way is really the right way. Living life without risk or too much risk isn't what Jo is promoting here-or the film for that matter. We see where Sirius and Umbridge end up. Where is the medium?

The movie did some really great things with developing Harry's character that I loved particularly. The scene at the end when he gives his speech to Voldemort (kind of reminded me of Moses 1 in the Pearl of Great Price...was that blasphemous?)-at the end of it he says "I feel sorry for you (Voldemort)". After all he's been through, afraid that he's becoming his enemy-he expresses sorrow for him. It's Frodo admitting he feels bad for Smeagol/Gollum. Brilliant. The other bit I really liked was Harry's speech on how all the greatest wizards were children once-and if they can do it, then so can the DA. I love that because I love thinking about the power of youth. I think lots of this is because I felt so much more grown up than I was when I was younger. My emotions were very real to me. I wanted to be taken seriously. So when I see kids doing what I wanted to do-create a symbolic DA of sorts and be able to fight against adults and win-I get really excited. It's why I loved Matilda so much. It isn't bashing on adults-it's not denying the feelings and emotions and intelligence of children, who really do understand much more than most people give them credit for because we're told to sugar coat everything.

Spiritually the part of the movie that touched me most was the idea that Harry has where he thinks he's becoming Voldemort. I think we're a little too hard on ourselves as members of the church sometimes. We really are a bunch of transcendentalists, in a way-there's a lot of emphasis on perfecting yourself. I think we sometimes get really focussed-or at least I do-on what it is we're doing wrong. Because we focus so much on these things we aren't good at, I think we assume that God does too. But I think we give ourselves too little credit. Dumbledore says it later in the film-it isn't what makes us like (Voldemort/Satan)-it's what makes us different. It's the times when we do live up to our own expectations, and succeed. It's when our intentions are pure. We focus so much on exactness that we forget mercy-we forget that God wants us home more than anything.

Anyway. That's enough Harry Potter for now. Good grief-it's all I blog on now. Mostly this is because I don't have anything else of interest going on. I don't want to write about how stressful selling my contract is because then I'd have to think about it some more.

My sister was baptized today-it's crazy because I remember when she was born and thinking I would be twenty when she got baptized. That's pretty old for a twelve year old. I remember thinking I could be married or dating someone at that point (so much for that)-and here it is. It was a pretty emotional day. I won't go into all the details or the background on it, but it was incredible to see her. There was a baby picture of her in the program right next to one of her now-forgive me while I wax sentimental for a second-I love my family. Having everyone in my family together is something of a luxury now with me at school most of the time and my brothers always out with friends and my dad with work and...it's a rare occasion. We've been through the mill as a whole family in the last few months with problems that don't need to be shared with the world, but let me just say that seeing my family come together today really reminded me of how it can (and should) be-and how grateful I am for the gospel.

Simple

I've had an interesting last week or so with things going on at home. They're too personal to discuss in a public forum type location here, so just take for granted that certain things I never thought I would hear. Let's just say that today I am glad that I am worthy. I'm glad that I can honestly hold a temple reccommend and have the spirit in my life to help me. It's so important to have that connection. CS Lewis was right when he said that God is holding his arms open to us. He wants us with Him. But that chance won't last forever. So today I don't really have anything remarkable to say, except I am so glad to be worthy to have the companionship of the spirit in my life. I'd be lost without it.