Memories--Sweet Summer Day

(Play the song; the last clip is Young Dylan on Johnny Cash show: "once I had mountains in the psalm of my hand" ... whew.
Redondo Beach, California. 1967. A Summer night by the sea.
Danny’s three room apartment is painted deep blue. A red silk scarf from a flea market drapes down crazy in a corner--not where one would expect. Something written in Chinese calligraphy hangs over the couch; sounds of Leonard Cohan, Moody Blues, Janis Joplin. Someone smokes rolled cigarettes. This room is filled with good friends--though we don't know names. Our baked skin from a long ocean day brings us close, brought us here. My lips still taste like salt. I comb sand from my hair onto a towel and slide down to lean against a couch, the only furniture in the room. A dark-haired girl lights Sandalwood incense. People move around in muted talking, cooking in a tiny kitchen. Sandals scrunch sand on the tiles. Kat, from Idaho, pulls my hair back and braids it into strands, tying the ends with string. Another girl weaves the braids together with pieces of thin cloth she cuts from a blue scarf. There is no fear in this room. (Most of my life, I’ve been blessed with good friends. Sometimes they seem to come out of nowhere.) Faces shine in the dim light. My muscles release into drowsy--from running in sand, sea spray, sun and more sun, waves breaking over my shoulders. The dark-haired girl hands me a plastic fork, ice water, a hand-painted dish filled with cheesecake and warm raspberry jam. Someone else comes out of the shower. I trust these people--all of them. Here, I am not just what I can do. I am not my face or wit. I just "am" to them. We listen to the end of “Nights in White Satin.” For a moment, it’s quiet: a soft kind of easy stillness that no one wants to break. I hear a spoon scraping a bowl and seagulls on the beach. Danny picks up a guitar. Long-haired-blond-guy by the window wipes a harmonica on his shirt. He blows three or four notes, licks his lips, drinks water, while Danny picks at strings. He hits a certain chord. The blond person glances over. They strum and blend, and we sing--just because we want to, just because it’s a good day. In this twilight room, there is no Vietnam, JFK, Dr King, or Lyndon B. It’s just us and “Take a Load off Fannie.” Then, for the first time, I hear Bob Dylan's "Girl from the North Country." Even now, when I grow up I want to be Bob Dylan. The music could go on forever, floating out over the sand, over the ocean, straight up to the stars. I think good memories must be rocks we step on to get over bad ones.

Opening Ceremonies--A Celebration of the Human Body.

OK. Yes, my heart hurts over Tibet (it has for a long time), and yes, I'm aware that a family member of our Volley Ball coach was murdered by a Chinese man on Saturday (who immediately committed suicide), and of other sundry events taking place as I write,but I'm still in awe over the opening Olympic Ceremonies.
Can we argue that some of the money spent should have gone to other causes? Yes. Of course. Is it strange to see Pres. Bush playing volleyball in Beijing while Russia blows Georgia off the map? Yes (enough said on that issue). But, I feel sorry for any who missed the opening ceremonies (except for EmPo and Bradly, whose wedding is a very good excuse). What an amazing event!
Zhang Yimou (director of HERO, HOUSE OF FLYING DAGGERS, etc.) gets most of the credit. Maybe later, he will regret aligning himself with China's official authoritarian state identity, since he's been at odds with China's leaders most of his life, but he is an incredible Chinese Artist--maybe "he" will be the future China, as he tries to move his beloved homeland out from under Mao Zedong's shadow, or, maybe he's in the process of selling out his old beliefs--but, right now I don't care, because he gave those who saw it an amazing gift of art, vision, theology, harmony, and pure beauty. I heard two newscasters today, who have covered over 25 opening ceremonies between them, say they have never seen anything like it, not only in the Olympics, but also in any art form, ever; nor did they expect to see such an event again in their lifeimes. One said, "There are no words for it."

Today, I got addicted, forgot about politics, watched volleyball, swimming, and cycling--yuk--but I loved it all--even found myself routing for Lithuania's long-haired Samoilovs against US almost-seven-foot giant, who should have won, but didn't. And good for Spain for winning the cyclist race, which was painful to watch because of the tortuous route. The point? The celebration of the physical human body is the center of the Olympic Games. My body hurts all the time now, but I remember how it feels to be healthy (though none of us will ever reach the training heights of Olympians. Hardly). I love this celebration, no matter where it's held, but, there's no doubt that Zhang Yimou artistic portrayal will be hard to beat--ever. If you missed it, try to pull up some news coverage re-runs--but not from YouTube--don't wade through the hate mongers; go to a reputable news source--that is, if you can find one.

Twins Fawns across the River--Late Summer Afternoon

Your children's courage comes from you...

I love you, Mom. And I love these beautiful souls you've found in your students. And I love how much they love you. You're post isn't depressing; it's just truth. Our truth... None of us saw the holes we've fallen in. It was an impossible situation for us all. But your children are crawling out of them now, looking to you for our way, though. Because you are our strength, our comfort, the reason that we are brave and alive today. Don't forget that. I love you with all my heart.

GM, pain can't be "silly," because it hurts too much. (Don't read; very depressing post)

GM, I love your comments because they push me further. One thing I know for sure-- I don't know how God thinks. I don't know His perspective.
When He says, "His ways are not our ways," I think this sentence is filled with the deepest kind of implications. He knows us, but we cannot comprehend Him. However, I wish I knew more, because I get so impatient with Him.
And it doesn't pay to get impatient with God. In fact, maybe that's the whole trip. (Sorry, if I sound a little bitter today.) I think feeling long-lasting pain just doesn't pay off. It’s simple economics. Nature says if you don't grow, you can't just stay the same; you wither and die, or someone has to cut off the brown withered part and throw it away. My problem is that I can't seem to cut off my own "withering" parts. (Wow. Poor analogy.)
Pain is familiar, but I hate it. Some parts of my past can still make me gasp and actually double over from the sharp edges of memories: the comfort of laying my head on a husband's shoulder during a dull sacrament meeting, waking up to a full house of laughing kids, barking dogs, and the smell of pancakes, racing a fox on my own horse on our own land— so much of it is washed over with false sunshine that I even forget the dark holes I skirted--big holes that Megan and Beau fell into. Some of my pain is "long lasting" because I still stare it in the face while I watch them suffer from MY decisions. This pain--the pain over your father, the ache over lost relationships, or sharp betrayals that should not have happened-- can't be "silly." It's too physical, too busy etching scars on our universe. But, I believe getting lost in it wastes our time. However, sometimes I get so lost in those dark corners, James; it takes me weeks to fight back out. If God could tell me how to cut this away--even if He said to use a knife--I'd do it in a second. That would be easy. (I think motivation for most “cutters” is to get rid of pain. Too bad it doesn’t work.)
Can God cut away pain? I believe He can, but it's conditioned on more spirituality and more obedience than I can give Him. To me, this is the great tragedy: The Atonement can heal and is able to work now--not just to redeem us from sin, but to bring us peace--but I'm not strong enough to claim it. I have grown old, all frozen up with fear, and I don't think, anymore, that the “mermaids will sing for me.”
But, James, you are young and creative, and, for you, nothing is set in stone yet. Faith can still move your mountains. I, at least, strongly believe in you (just so long as you don't point out mixed metaphors in this post). In fact, I predict this: you will stay faithful to your wife, you will greatly respect your own sons, you will teach others to be honest, and I will live to see your name in print (Oh, also, you will dedicate your second book of poetry to me for predicting such a wonderful future).