Sky Splitters

I have known for weeks that I am very sadly behind. I have also know what I've wanted to write about. But it wasn't until I was in bed last night, struck with a particular line of a poem, that I knew I needed to put this experience to pen. Almost a month ago, someone anonymously paid my graduate tuition for Fall semester, a sum of which is 20% of my entire program cost. Overwhelmed, I did my best to find out who this individual was. And I did. In reaching out to thank her, I found someone largely uncomfortable with my knowing and who responded, genuinely, that she'd been blessed with a good life and, seeing something special in me, had wanted to help.

Over the last few weeks, I've thought a lot about this moment. As someone whose life is based on a belief in God and that the good I do is a reflection of the good He has done for me, I was in awe knowing that my benefactor, someone who I've had a few spiritual conversations with, does not necessarily share these beliefs. Instead, every good deed she does, every kindness that she anonymously gives, comes from a deep goodness inside of her. Her unfettered desire to give, with no expectation of reward in this life or the next, humbled me.

In the words of Edna St. Vincent Millay, "the soul can split the sky in two and let the face of God shine through." So here's to a woman who split the sky on my behalf.

Good Intentions

We are living in a world of rapid-fire communication. I can text from my phone, my home computer, or my work computer (a recent happiness of mine). We email and send FaceBook messages; we can call, FaceTime, or Skype. The possibilities are endless. Still, I can't help but notice that despite all of these avenues, we so often misunderstand the people around us or are left feeling like we're on completely different pages.

I read something recently that resonated with me. Someone said that the source of most misunderstandings is that we judge others by their actions and ourselves by our intentions. How true this is. Knowing my own heart, I know (and assume others know) that I do not say things with the hope of hurting or belittling anyone. To most of us, this would be unthinkable. But when it comes to evaluating what other people say, we often question their motive or meaning, convinced that things aren't plain or in good spirit. Sure there may be those few people who intentionally jab at us, but they are likely far and few between. More often than not, we let ourselves become hurt or irritated simply because we don't assume in others what we automatically assume in ourselves: good intentions.

So maybe it is time to return to an old-fashioned and faith-based principle, one that would save ourselves a bit of grief. To always believe the best in others.

Dust If You Must

Lately, I've been thinking quite a bit about risk, both the personal and the professional kind. These big balloon-like questions consistently float around in my head: do I give up this to do that? what if I give up this to do that, and that doesn't work out? do I risk what happiness I have for something that may bring none at all? Taking risks feels dangerous. Even the word itself is short and abrupt, similar to the sound we make when our faces hit the floor after trying something new (it's happened to all of us). It can dramatically affect the things we value: our savings accounts, our cherished routines, our valued relationships, and even our hearts.

Like the most perfect synchronized swimming, a friend gave me an article on happiness in the midst of all of these thoughts. After hundreds of studies with thousands of candidates, there was one common result: those that risk more know more happiness. Despite the result, there's some part of our souls that is enlivened and delighted that we possess the courage to take a chance. We even subconsciously congratulate ourselves for a losing hand, simply because we know we were able to push past fear to put ourselves in the middle of the game. And through each leap of faith and each scary move, we collect experiences that surpass the happiness of a safely lived life.

In the words of an anonymous author...

Dust if you must, but there's not much time,

With rivers to swim and mountains to climb,
Music to hear and books to read,
Friends to cherish and life to lead.

Dust if you must, but the world's out there,
With the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair,
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain.
This day will not come around again.

Dust if you must, but bear in mind,

Old age will come and it's not kind.
And when you go—and go you must—
You, yourself, will make more dust.

The Noticer

Lately, I've been swimming in business classes. The creative part of my brain had momentarily atrophied until recently, when I read a book called The Noticer. In it, Jones, an old man of indescribable age and ethnicity appears to people in moments where they see their life with too narrow a lens. He shows them that life is only a matter of perspective. To the homeless boy under the pier, Jones explains that sand can be fertile ground. To the twice-divorced man who can only see what he doesn't have, Jones convinces him to stop letting his history control his destiny. To the corrupt businessman who is retracing his steps to make amends, Jones tells him that intention without action is an insult to those who expect the best from you. And to the old grandmother who feels her life has no purpose now that her husband and children are gone, Jones helps her believe that no matter her age, physical condition, financial situation, color, gender, emotional state, or belief, everything she does, every move she makes, matters to all of us and forever.

I often, like most people, walk through life believing that I see things as they are, that mine is the true perspective. I seem to know, by heart, my faults, my failures, my misgivings, and my missteps. They whisper to me that I often expect too much, push too hard, forgive too infrequently, and do too little. But lately, I've met a few noticers who have forced  my eyelids open to a broader perspective of myself. These individuals have altered my steps a small but significant degree, allowing me to stand taller and with more insight. With their help, the view is new. And bright.

As Jones said, perhaps to me, "think, learn, pray, plan, dream—for soon, you will become."

 

Neruda

I've been in the habit lately of reading poetry before bed. Some writers' words are fluid and neat, with few breaks in thought. Others remind me of running over hot pavement, with expressions that are sharp, short, and emphatic. My favorite of all are the words with palpable passion, with texture and vivid imagery about the things that I too think about. This week I've been married to Pablo Neruda, and I've always felt like his thoughts are the ones in my own mind that I can never articulate or punctuate.

Because sometimes, someone else's words are better than our own. Here's to one of the best and brightest every scribbled on paper.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

 

For My Marmie

There's something about a mother and something extra spectacular about mine. Mothers know how to love you the best and comfort you the most. And they always make it seem that whenever you leave the nest, wonderful things are waiting for you. I hear my mother's voice when I think of what Marmie March says to her daughter in Little Women, "Jo, you have so many extraordinary gifts; how can you expect to lead an ordinary life? You're ready to go out and find a good use for your talent. Tho' I don't know what I shall do without my Jo. Go, and embrace your liberty. And see what wonderful things come of it."

Something that makes my mother perfect for me is that she knew what I needed at different times in my life. When I was little, she knew I needed lots of one-on-one time snuggling and talking. And let's be honest, not much has changed. When I was in junior high, and too nervous to eat in the lunchroom, she knew the perfect place for me was eating with her in her classroom. She never seemed to worry that I wouldn't eventually blossom, but acted instead like it was the bright spot in her day. Even now, my mother knows when to invite me home for a dinner pregnant with good conversation and the best flavors so that she can remind me that, yes, everything will work out for me (the big fear of my 20s). She knows when I've needed some coddling; she knows when I've needed a cheer.

 

My mother, for the record, is many things. She's a loyal friend, a disciple, a caring neighbhor, a fierce athlete, an explorer, a world traveler, and a wonderful grandmother. But, in honor of this Sunday, the mother in my mother is what I choose to celebrate. So here's to my Marmie, who has spent her life making everyone else's a beautiful thing.

Moving On Down

Last weekend, my friend and I made our way through the national parks in Southern Utah. I was surprised at how much the desert colors reminded me of a favorite t-shirt washed a hundred times: muted, blended, comfortable. At Dead Horse Point, we stood on what felt like the top of the world and looked out at endless, deep canyons. In the middle of them all runs the Colorado river, and per usual when I see rivers that size, the last line of A River Runs Through It crossed my mind. "I am haunted by waters..."

As someone who loves efficiency, I couldn't help but notice the roundabout route the river takes on its way to the ocean. It curves around rocks in big, horseshoe-like shapes and winds down canyons, over rocks, and through dams. And as far as we know, the river doesn't put up a fuss. It chooses to go around the things it couldn't go straight through and has kept moving despite hundreds of extra miles it takes to reach its destination had it been on a more express route. Staring out at it all, I could see the parallels to life. There have been times where I wanted to skip B, C, and D in order to get somewhere a little faster (both in literal and figurative journeys). I complained about unneeded loops, and I grumbled at the extra distance. But, like the river, I need to simply go around that which I can't go through and gracefully accept a new route if my persistent efforts with one don't lead me somewhere. And, most importantly, I need to remember that no matter the length of the journey, the destination is the same.

So here's to looking up, admiring the view, thanking the deep blue sky, and moving on down the river.