Dying is as constant as living

Cool green shade
slides across the river.
Even mosquitoes are sleeping.

But bats zip in the nights,
blind, like military jets
heading straight for warm blood.

"The Times they are a Changin'" (Bob Dylan)

I'm not going to say anything about the politics of the situation because I know my political views are different from others. Politics aside I'm looking at the big picture. Sister Morgan summed it up best with her Facebook status:

"Sharon Morgan is crying because she saw race riots in person, and now for the first time in 38 years, she feels proud of her country again."

Amen. Amen.

"Yes We Can."
"Yes We Did."
"Change has come to America."

All of these phrases marked tonight, which I would say is one of the more historic moments in the history that I have witnessed. Though it's not saying much it still says something. In my lifetime I have witnessed things like the Tuesday morning of Sept. 11, 2001. I remember coming in through the door after seminary, and shock as I stood next to my dad, eyes glued to the TV as the last of the twin towers fell to the ground, thousands of pounds of concrete peeling downwards. I knew then that the world would end. All chaos was about to be unleashed upon the nations of the world because people out there were evil enough to throw planes into buildings. And for what? What a contrast today is to that day. Two different Tuesdays.

I'm Canadian. Though American politics is fun to watch and follow, it really is like watching a sport to me. I follow it the same way I would follow a favorite sports team--slightly detached and rooting for a team that really doesn't mean much. That's not to say the issues aren't important, but they don't affect me directly because I'm not American. Sad truth though is that having spent the last five years in America, I know more about what's going on here than back at home. The issues here have more relevance (if not relative importance) to the issues at home.

Today, I saw a million people gather in a place that was the site of racial riots 40 years ago to support a new President. I saw in the smiles of the anonymous million waiting for President Obama to make his acceptance speech, the shadow of hundreds of years of civil rights atrocities and injustices lift from the face of America. I saw in the hugs of jubilation that differences can bring us together: history doesn't have to dictate the future. I saw in their tears the visual expression of the hope that I felt.

I'm not a very optimistic person. I'm a person that loses faith in humanity more and more as I get older, but tonight it was different. In those people's expressions I felt hope, I felt hope in humanity because I knew that America had gone a long way to overcome it's own past. America elected an African-American man to be its president.

I don't know how long this hope I feel will last, but I know that at for at least one night, I can be proud of the human race again. Ivor Lee



Well said, Ivor. This win was breathtaking; I am overjoyed, but probably for different reasons from those of my friends and colleagues.
No one could say McCain isn’t a sincere man after listening to his gracious concession speech. But, as the Prime Minister of England just said, “This day will go down as one of the most significant days in history.” I do not think people realize yet what has happened.

Except you're wrong, Ivor, when you say American politics don't affect you. What happens in this country is always global. The eyes of the world are always upon us. And, for many years, I've ducked my head because of that, wanting to clain I was Canadian, Irish, an alien from Mars. We have a constitution that says we will live under a true democracy—which means we are supposed to be a country who gaurentee human rights for every single child of God—whether that person is Jewish, Hispanic, White, Black, or Chinese. In case anyone forgot— Democracy is “for the people and by the people.” Yet, when I was your age, I saw that we spoke out of both sides of our mouths. We were the greatest of hypocrites. I saw Afro-Americans (what an ironic term) beaten by police and spit upon, humiliated by white people; whites who then walked home to eat family dinners as if they had just been swatting flies. I saw little girls with black hair and skin hide behind their mother's skirt when a caucasian came near them. I saw more than I could stomach--more than I wanted to see. And I can never forget it.
More importantly, I saw massive discrimination happening in a critical arena— minorities had to fight to get an education or even be admitted to our universities. No wonder so many just gave up. Is it possible that people in this country think this did not happen? I was ashamed to be an American for many years, as I witnessed abuse of authority (Nixon’s deceit; Clinton’s blatant and embarrassing immorality, Bush’s stupidity), our genocide in Vietnam as we protested genocides in other countries, our division and petty politics, our cruelty to each other as children shot other children. (How did you make it through your high schools without severe mental damage? Uhh, never mind. I take back that question.) There was no United in the United States I grew up in--except for a brief time under J.F. Kennedy (the first Catholic to be voted president), but he was assassinated, as was Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy shortly after.
Disillusioned with my country? That’s too mild a word. I have felt guilty, ashamed, angry, and embarrassed—and responsible for its condition—until the tragedy at Kent State when my feelings turned into a bitter cynicism, which I have tried to keep to myself (unsuccessfully) for many years.
The point, for me, is not so much the next four years: most people realize that whoever won (won? another ironic term) the presidency, whether it was McCain or Obama, would be extremely limited in what he could accomplish in the White House. We know the next president inherits a narrow isle, in which he can operate, from the presidency before him. Obama‘s presidency (or McCain’s if he had won) will succeed or fail by the choices he makes in his cabinet. If he surrounds himself with good, EDUCATED advisors, and if he listens to others and pays attention to what history has taught us (or not taught some of us), he may be able to pull us up a notch or two. And, in this area, maybe his inexperience will be an asset, since he will need to listen and learn. But, it’s naive of some to think that either McCain or Obama could fix what’s wrong with this country— either economically or politically, nor can they fix our relationships with foreign countries. We are in a mess that we ourselves have created. And it’s our value system that is at fault. Our heroes are movies stars and sports figures. We idolize the rich and despise the poor. We celebrate army tanks in our parades. We give away our right to privacy. And we do not respect each other. Blah Blah Blah.
But, last night I saw a shift in American values. I am elated about the historical change in the American people. For me, this signals the beginning of the end of racism and prejudice. (Dr. King only brought attention to our hypocrisy.) To me, this means other countries can finally view us as a place where EVERYONE does have a chance to pursue a dream and actually reach it. Maybe they will view us as a democracy again rather than a group of white skinheads—rich ego elitists. I have hope that in my next trip to Europe, I will not ridiculed for being from the USA. I saw young people filling Times Square; cameras showed them pouring out of dorm rooms at colleges celebrating their country for the first time in 35 years. Why? Because we all want to change. We want to be proud of our country. We want to be unified. I saw a long dry apathy blowing away in the wind.
I was in graduate school when President Kimball received the revelation that Afro-Americans could now receive the priesthood. You cannot imagine the pure joy flowing within the halls of an English Department where it was always difficult to reconcile a discriminatory ideology. I had such a hard time understanding how we were ALL children of God, when some of us—even though worthy— were denied full temple blessings. But, I knew the church was true, so I swallowed this paradox and kept my faith high anyway. When the revelation came through President Kimball (who prayed long and hard, because he was also troubled), my sister’s husband, who is anti-Mormon, said, “Of course, this decision was made. It was completely political. The church has to APPEAR to go along with the Civil Rights movement.” Soon after, at an LDS Conference, the Lord let us ALL understand the revelation was held back because WE were not ready to receive it. (And it’s true that many in the South left the church at that time because it was too hard for them to think of taking the sacrament sitting next to a colored person.)
If the American people can vote in an Afro-American, they may have no problem, someday, electing an L.D.S. president, which could never have happened before this. Those who have lived all their lives among the saints find this hard to believe, but it's true. It may not be Mitt Romney, but whomever (?) will have a chance.
I am overwhelmed, absolutely stunned, astounded—I cried and cried— not because I think Obama will lead us out of this mess—we will have to take responsibility for that—but simply because Americans finally grew up enough to elect someone without discriminating against race (maybe we can add gender later). Even just to see young people politically alive again makes history. And by the end of the week, everything I'm saying will be cliched. But, for me, right now, I finally understand patriotism.

However, a small bubble of cynicism still sits right under my ribs. I am still afraid that those who oppose the status quo will be assassinated and was glad to see the thick protective glass surrounding both candidates last night.
But, . . . Wow. It finally felt good to vote again.

Changes--Beautiful Women

Lodge poles

Living is throwing a rock at a car.
Kicking a cat.
Tossing toothpaste and socks in a bag,
grabbing keys and driving

somewhere, no where for a week.
It’s a silent scream
at winter coming before you say it’s OK.
It’s sin that cuts both ways.

Wear a scarf over your blond hair
or someday some creep will scalp you
and hang it from his lodgepole.
And they will praise his name in the hallways.

You will never be safe, yet you must act safe
And never tremble to face the day.
The sun will not shine when you want.
And the rains won't come.

But the sea rolls in
and out again. And you breathe
whenever, wherever you choose.
It’s true. Ask anyone.

Recent pics of Henrietta Pew--beautiful

Question? Which picture looks like Brian? Which one is Emily, Emily, Emily?

"Peace comes dropping slow"

My friend reminded me today of a character in a story I told her about. He was hurt and dying, trying to crawl along a desert floor toward his daughter. An evil Shaman stood over him and said, "I see two wolves at war in your heart--both powerful--one is dark and stained; one is light. Which one will win?" The man squinted at him through the blood running from his eyes and said, "Whichever one I feed the most."

I love this.

The Shaman spits on him and leaves. Then a beautiful bird lands by the man, and the man whispers, "Little Brother, I have treated you well all my life; help me now. Show me the way."

After conference weekend, I am humbled at the clear power of the Prophet to show us the way. I wrote down questions and fears I had. After the first session on Saturday, all had been answered and peace filled up the room. I took pictures of the leaves reflected in the river, of the trees, and sunset. I am amazed at all I have been blessed with, and at how fast my life can change. I am well. I am happy today. And I am stronger than I have been in a great while. This is not bragging. I am just back on the path I started many many years ago, and it feels safe, and it looks beautiful.

Scavenging echoes

I don’t know when I’ve felt so empty. As I count my days, I see many I’ve spent alone—more than most, but I can’t remember emptiness. I was always filled up with friends from my books, with their pain and ecstasy; in fact, maybe that was a curse. I attached only to a few close friends right in front of me. The friends I knew intimately were homeless or aristocratic, wandering, or frantically engaged, peaceful or catastrophic and always bigger than life itself. I walked around with Anna Karenina’s silent wail, Gatsby’s unshakable dream, My Antonia’s yellow wheat fields, Tess’s lost eyes looking down such dark roads. (Scattered roses weren't enough. How did Hardy know that?) I never waited for a doctor’s appointment without traveling to an Italian loggia or London garden from Howard’s End or Room with a View. Numb? I ran to the moors with Heathcliff.

The emptiness is huge, chrome-like, all in shades of silver, gray, and black. It’s standing in a carved out circle with ten hallways extending off of it, without ceilings. And they wind away from the circle with nothing in them but air. I feel like a tiny piece of gravel, because the empty is bigger than standing in front of the sea, bigger than the universe. It’s vast.
And I’m surprised. I never anticipated its constant insistence on making itself known. This quiet encircles people, crowds, the earth and goes on forever. I feel people moving around me, hear them talking, but it’s jargon. I could grab the words out of the air and shape them into steel spears to drive into the moon or carve them into willows to roast marshmallows.
I drive through Idaho fields toward home, and there’s just the steering wheel. I can feel the highway rolling under the tires, but even the sounds are all low like far away thunder. I don’t look up anymore to search for the hawks. It feels like drifting away from chatter and chaos, from endless busy-ness—just drifting—floating, sort of evaporating.
Still, I have been blessed. There are traces of opera left—I can hear it like I hear echoes in a canyon. Narrow Italian streets with crumbling tangerine plaster. Pigeons in Venice too thick to walk through. Winding staircases and cicadas. The horror of the coliseum. The hot walk up through the bored shopkeepers to the Parthenon. We could barely make our way through the ghosts and barely sense their grandeur.(What did they want? Why did they build this pillared massive stone monument? In hopes that the gods would smile on them? And who was I next to these lost people?)
And the bright, sharp, Van Gogh light in Southern France with strangers sitting at tables eating strawberry crepes. We said we’d make love in every town across Europe to make it our own, though we fought once in Florence—my most favorite pile of stones in the entire world. I don’t know. I thought it was his fault because he wanted to shop for leather, but maybe he couldn't live up to my expectations of a Medici moon. Maybe everything else paled beside the harps floating up from the restaurant beneath the sculpture garden.
I have loved some good men; my heart is full of great children, but knowing them has made the quiet bigger and wider.
I always believed in the sweet surrender of a someday-death, but there is no death. The real tragedy of suicides is that we live on forever. No one will ever die; we go on and on whether we like it or not, though we move into phases in life that we don’t anticipate. New landscapes that someone at sometime somewhere must have whispered about, but I was too blind and deaf to understand them. Now, I hear the empty spaces even in the books and their depths spin my head, along with the courage of the authors, who attempt to uncover them. There must be a way to become comfortable with changes, to live with the empty quiet gracefully and “first do no harm.”
I want to stop the car at the railroad-crossing, drift along the tracks to the Snake River, ease through the wild wheat to slip into wet, smooth coldness and swim clear to China where red and yellow flags hang in streets smelling of fish and poppy flowers. I want to crush through a mass of people, watch children flying kites, or chase rabbits through the sagebrush. And I see Streisand turning in circles in The Way We Were saying, “I want, I want, I want.” What I really want is to be past this phase or at least walk through it with grace and clarity.

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).

Hey, Tanner

STELLMON. That would be Tanner Stellmon I'm talking to--my nephew (though I guess he's not technically my nephew anymore), NOT Tanner Warnick, whom I am not talking to right now, since I had to find out about his wedding from his little brother (Whoops. Sorry, Chan. His "taller" brother) even though I planned on dancing--on the table tops--at his wedding, since I personally had to suffer so much from his troubles with Melissa, who was probably just sent to get him ready for his real wife.
Soooooo, Tanner STELLMON, I was wondering if you have an office, and if you do, is it F.S.? I tipped over rock salt today, which I had in all four corners of my house to suck out bad energy. Wow, I bought that rock salt with Serena--that's how long ago it was--it seems like I dreamed it.
Remember when I had you and Jared move my desk around so it faced exactly SE, which meant it sat triangular to the door? Whew. Did my F.S. work? I don't know. I think I'll try it again and pay attention this time. I think it did though; I'm normal more than half the time now; but I was wondering if yours did.
I wonder if the Lord ever gets irritated with our silliness.

yael naim new soul clip

PERSPECTIVES--It's always interesting to see how others view us. I'm usualy appalled at another's perspective, or surprised, sometimes amused, or irritated, disappointed, or just plain happy that someone actually understands me.
On another blog, Sarah (just had baby girl--Ella) posted lyrics from C.Crows song, "Marjorie is Dreaming of Horses." She says it reminds her of my life. To me, the lyrics paint a depressed loser. Whew (though I DO often dream of horses and related).
Today my daughter sent me yael naim's "New Soul" and said, "This is you, Mom." I relate again, especially to the lyrics "to learn to give and take ... but make so many mistakes." Also, in our 100 moves, I could never unpack boxes unless I decorated walls with my DI art and posters first, even if it meant we slept on floors and ate off crates. I relate to her scribbling in her own reality between the lines until it bursts into her vision, and if this is what J. Watson refered to as my habit of changing reality to fit what I want it to be, then he may be right. It's possible I was wrong. This looks like a younger me. (Yeah for the resurrection-the day after, I'm going to run and dance to Santana.)
But, I see pieces of me in everyone and everything. So much for identity--it's over-rated anyway.... I know I DO love this video and daughter Megan.

4th of July--White Kittens and Chainsaws.

I'm glad to have friends who hop in the car--without thinking--at midnight to help Megan and me run disaster kittens to a drop box at a Humane society. I'm glad I have that kind of a daughter. It's late on a long holiday. Em and I are sitting around a fire, and she's telling me some fascinating mystical story when I see a white kitten through the smoke--sitting perfectly still--watching us. I'm sure it's not real; it's a flashback spirit-guide from Peyote dreams of long ago, but it whines and moves. I pick it up to find its twin sulking in the shadows (marking in my mind the spot where Em needs to finish her story). They're tiny and hungry and look like they've been beaten up by raccoons, so I know what's going to happen when Megan sees them. I automatically go to the garage to cut air holes in a box. Then, we three leave son-Taylor, Jessica, and Ben and drive 15 miles over construction roads to help two mutilated kittens. Em sticks out her hand to pet white guard dogs, who happily jump in the open car door after we wouldn't let them eat the kittens. It's even later now, but time has evaporated, so we buy soda and ice cream at an all-night truck stop. For some reason, it's the best ice cream in the world.
Lil' Emily Pew, does this justify having Ben let Em practice with the chainsaw? Who knows? Yes, it's possible we'll see her name in lights for the next Chainsaw Massacre movie. But she wins heavy points for just being there, supporting Megan's thin-skinned heart--without questioning--and for being who she is (WHATEVER that is).