Pity Party

I have recently become aware of the fascinating duality that is the human soul. How at once we can know precisely what we should do...and unequivocally decide not to do it. It is as if humans were the most illogical creatures of all. And yet I do believe that the opposite is true -- we are the most logical by far. What other of God's creations can conceive of and understand so many angles to a single situation or circumstance? What other creature can dress up an abstract idea like "love" in such definitive and lasting words? We are logical to a fault. And still...we can throw aside all reason and logic and surprise even ourselves. An example from the quotidian of life: I know that righteousness is the ONLY happiness. I believe it and know it and breathe it. And at any given moment, I can be seen doing something - anything - completely indulgent and sinful. I actually choose unhappiness.

This duality - this inconsistency - this stupidity - weaves its way through every aspect of our lives. But I only want to talk about one specific manifestation right now...and that is the choice I make to feel pain. I have had plenty of opportunites of late to feel the most crippling pain. I have been absolutely paralyzed in every sense of the word for months at a time. It is not because of any situation that I've been in...not really...but simply because I have chosen to feel like crap. Believe me, I am fully aware of how to escape the pain. It's actually a ridiculously simply process. But I ignore that process just to keep myself in the scorching oven. Why?

...

Singling

There’s Dave and Rich and John Redd (John Redd?) hiking up the face of a mountain with too-heavy-for-carrying loads of firewood, a package of marshmallows, two Cadbury chocolate bars (because Cadbury melts quicker than Hersheys and Hersheys almost never melts period), a lighter (that cost two cents in Thailand, and yes it works), a Mexican poncho, two speaker boxes, unmarried grins, and a pocket full of phone calls. And there’s me. I’m there too. Carrying one of those ridiculous mounds of wood and worrying about getting cited for having a fire during dry season. “I wonder if we’ll get in trouble for starting a fire” I wonder out loud. Rich echoes my concern. But he’s not really worried about it. In fact, he’s not even thinking about it. There are going to be girls coming, and that single thought consumes three entire universes. My universe trails behind, balancing desperately on burning legs.

On top of Pete’s rock, we throw down our loads and half-heartedly make a fire pit. It’s 9 o’clock and the sun is dying fast, but we’re in no hurry to get started. Single people are never in a hurry, and tonight I’m single. Ellie is well taken-care-of with her grandma and Brooke is sitting by a pool in Sunny California. On second thought, let’s get this shindig rolling…I have a lot of singling to do before this night is over. I have no intentions of forgetting my wife and child, but “carefree” is plastered on the walls of my mind like indie-rock posters. I’m neurotic about losing my mind.

(to be continued...)

To Do List:

Cure AIDS. 8000 people per day die of AIDS. That means that in 1 month, more people die from AIDS than died in the southeastern tsunami. I can barely function when I consider what that really means. What if I had AIDS? What if I had a disease that no one wants to talk about, let alone be around? What if I was sitting in a hospital bed for months and friends got bored of visiting me and family lost hope in me and I was afraid to touch my fragile sweet tender endlessly beautiful daughter and my 5-year plans turned into fighting just for tomorrow and I stopped loving everything worth loving strictly as a defense and I finally killed God and Goodness and Life and Light and Hope and Hope and Hope? What if hope was the hollow echo of a child's musings? What if I were Eight Thousand People today, April 26, 2006? And Eight Thousand People tomorrow, April 27, 2006? What if I were Twenty-Four Thousand People not looking forward to this weekend? What if the leaves on this tree of life kept falling and falling and falling until winter was the only thing left?

rock-a-bye, baby, in the treetop,
when the wind blows the cradle will rock,
when the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
and down will come everyleaf everyone everything...cradle and all.

Hi

Some General Authority once told a story of how he was called to be a GA. He was called into the President's office and the Prophet asked him 3 simple questions. While this story would be better if I could remember all 3 questions, I can only recall one. That one question was, "Do you keep a daily journal?"

What? Can a journal really be that important? I'm not naive enough to believe that a daily log of life is all that it takes to be an Apostle. I'm sure the Prophet knew enough about this soon-to-be GA that a thorough interview was not necessary. But still, that story has stuck with me for years.

Someone (do you like how vague I am in my memory?) once said that writing is the ultimate medium for humans to communicate. It allows us to speak in the privacy of our own minds, and yet still share our thoughts with others. It is completely nonconfrontational, and yet a well-written anything can get right up in your face.

There are many people who write because of the privacy and intimacy inherent in a pen and paper or a laptop kept under passcode. Sometimes people write just to see what they are thinking. But I think everyone--down to the most awkward and introverted schlep--wants to be heard. Or better put, wants to be read. Or maybe not. But speaking for myself, if I did not want anyone to know what I think, I wouldn't take the time or the risk to make of record of my mindings. I write so that I know what I'm thinking, and so that you might know too.