All the things that didn't happen to me today:
1. I did NOT come down with the mumps.
2. I did NOT finish painting our hallway. Or any other room in the house, for that matter.
3. I did NOT eat anything worth mentioning.
4. I did NOT see, talk to, or hold hands with Christopher Walken. His loss.
5. I did NOT become fluent in French overnight.
6. I did NOT receive a mysterious package that may or may not have contained a bomb.
7. I did NOT buy contact solution even though I am out. And currently wearing contacts.
All the Foods I have Never Tried:
1. Blood pudding.
2. Haggis.
3. Homemade blue cheese.
4. Milk straight from a cow.
5. Count Chocula breakfast cereal.
6. Snails.
7. Goose liver.
8. Deep fried tootsie roll on a stick.
9. Deep fried anything on a stick.
All the Boys I Never Dated:
This is something I have been thinking about lately. Generally I try to operate under the assumption that it's better to take risks and know for sure about something than to live forever wondering if something would have worked out. And I'm not just talking about boys here, either. I am a much happier person knowing as I do that pig feet are gross, whereas if I had never tried them I may have lived my whole life wondering if pig feet were the tastiest delicacy on the planet. Probably not, but who wants to live with that kind of possibility? It's better to try one and know for sure that they are disgusting.
Another example is persimmons. Possibly the most delicious food on the planet. If Satan himself were to come and offer me one in exchange for something major, like leaving my home and experiencing hardship and agency and childbirth, I would seriously consider it. That's a lie. I would go for it without looking back. Persimmons are that good.
I was introduced to persimmons on my mission. Not because anyone offered them to me. I discovered them on my own. When I was serving with Ashley, every P-day I picked out a fruit or vegetable in the produce section that I didn't recognize, than sometime during the week I ate it. Sometimes whatever I bought was gross, but at least I knew for sure that none of the items available were poisonous. They don't sell poisonous produce in grocery stores in Hungary. A wise policy.
Anyway, so one week I go to the exotic fruit basket in the back corner of the produce section and start rifling through it. I find what looks like an orange tomato, and buy it figuring it will taste like one. Then one Sunday morning while my companion was in the shower and I had very little food left from the week, I reluctantly cut it up and tried it.
It was like a symphony on my tongue. It was so sweet and juicy and magical. The following P-day I bought like seven even though they were like three hundred forint each. Man, they were delicious. I regretted every month of my life that had not been spent eating more and more persimmons. I seem to recall that on that morning I actually went into the bathroom where Ashley was showering and demanded that she come out and taste this delight in my hands. She was so good to put up with me.
I should also add that I didn't know they were called persimmons until I returned home from my mission over a year later. I don't remember the Hungarian word for them, but I think it was something unhelpful like "Jerusalem apples" or something like that.
Some men are like pig feet. They appear to be a bad choice but you (well, I) try them just to make sure they aren't actually a whole lot of greatness in a lousy package. Always a disappointment, but never a surprise.
Some men are like persimmons. They appear ordinary, but once you try them you regret every minute of your life that was not spent enjoying everything that person has to offer. That kind of experience never wears off. I have never met a human persimmon.
Some men are pomelos. They look fulfilling and delicious but then turn out to be sour and gross. Consistently. A pomelo betrayed me once. And here I am talking about the actual fruit, not a person.
Most men, unfortunately, are like oatmeal. They sustain you through life but don't do much for you besides that. And sometimes some jerk puts shredded glass in your oatmeal, just to be spiteful, and almost die from your breakfast. It's true. I read about it once.*
Frequently, I assume someone is a persimmon, take a bite and find it filled with rolled oats, with or without the glass. It never ceases to disappoint me, though. Rest assured though, that someday I will be banging down your figurative bathroom door insisting that you try this persimmon. Meet this person.
And you will say to me, "Sister Koler, shouldn't you be getting ready for Church?"
"Let me be something every minute of every hour of my life. Let me be gay; let me be sad. Let me be cold; let me be warm. Let me be hungry...have too much to eat. Let me be ragged or well dressed. Let me be sincere-be deceitful. Let me be truthful; let me be a liar. Let me be honorable and let me sin. Only let me be something every blessed minute. And when I sleep, let me dream all the time so that not one little piece of living is ever lost."
- Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Ch. 48
*Well, in a novel.
24 September, 2009
14 September, 2009
NERD ALERT!!!!
So in the past few days I have lost two USB drives. That's right. Dos. They were nice ones too. Thus I decided I needed a change of plans.
Behold! A USB drive that fits like a key onto my keyring. It will never be lost again!
Also, it's 8 gigs. As Dave said, "That's like an iPod!" Word.
If you're interested you can buy your own here.
Behold! A USB drive that fits like a key onto my keyring. It will never be lost again!Also, it's 8 gigs. As Dave said, "That's like an iPod!" Word.
If you're interested you can buy your own here.
09 September, 2009
A personal flaw akin to Kayla's mortal fear of old people, except MINE will probably send me to Hell.
Reason why I am a bad person #12,679.5
There is a cute companionship of bright-eyed sister missionaries, in matching twinsets and comfortable shoes, who often hang out in the Wilk during lunchtime.
I was a sister missionary once, was I not? So you think I would be eager as a beaver to talk to them. And yet EVERY TIME I walk by them, my immediate instinct is to do the following:
1. Look down so as to avoid making eye contact.
2. Lengthen my stride (Except in a totally UNRIGHTEOUS way).
3. Take out my phone or my iPod (or both!) from my purse in an attempt to look busy.
4. Sometimes, I even TURN around completely and walk in a different direction.
I don't know why I feel this way. It's similar to my phobia of cops, except it makes no sense.
There is a cute companionship of bright-eyed sister missionaries, in matching twinsets and comfortable shoes, who often hang out in the Wilk during lunchtime.
I was a sister missionary once, was I not? So you think I would be eager as a beaver to talk to them. And yet EVERY TIME I walk by them, my immediate instinct is to do the following:
1. Look down so as to avoid making eye contact.
2. Lengthen my stride (Except in a totally UNRIGHTEOUS way).
3. Take out my phone or my iPod (or both!) from my purse in an attempt to look busy.
4. Sometimes, I even TURN around completely and walk in a different direction.
I don't know why I feel this way. It's similar to my phobia of cops, except it makes no sense.
08 September, 2009
What to Expect
The other day while I was modeling I let my mind wander, as usual, and I started thinking about humiliation. Not because I find my job humiliating, mind you. Quite the contrary. One of the students was laughing about how his roommates often assume that drawing from life is a sexual or erotic experience, and how that can't be farther from the truth. Fact: one of the students actually said, "Picture drawing a bowl of fruit. Now picture the bowl of fruit is a person. Same thing." That made me laugh. Inwardly, since I couldn't move. Also, one of the perks of my job is that I have learned how to yawn through my nose.
In my psycholinguistics class we learned that one of the signs (Not a telltale sign, but evidence nonetheless) of autism is lack of a sense of humor. This is mainly because most autistic kids don't have enough of a handle on reality to recognize when something is out of the ordinary. For example, if a kid with normal cognitive abilities watches a Looney Tunes clip in which the Roadrunner is running down the road, as he has a tendency to do, and then suddenly runs into a mountain that is smack in the middle of the road, he or she (the kid) will laugh. A normal person would realize that usually mountains do not sit in the middle of roads, and thus will find that funny. The humor lies in the unexpected.
I think it's the same thing with humiliation. I think the root of feeling embarrassed about something happening to you lies in the fact that you don't expect it. As a slightly revelatory* example: when I was modeling (in a bikini) at BYU, one day I did a slightly athletic pose and my breast fell out of my top. Just for a moment. But I'll admit it was pretty embarrassing. Conversely, on Saturday I was lying on my back, while the teacher was leaning over me, completely naked, and didn't feel embarrassed at all. I think the main difference is that I was expecting to be naked and prepared for that moment, whereas the previous event had come out of nowhere.
Think about it. When you have a crush on someone and do something stupid in front of him/her, you are embarrassed not so much because of the act itself, but because in your mind, you don't expect to ever act like an idiot in front of someone you are trying to impress. If you fall in public, it's mostly because that wasn't your plan for yourself when you woke up that morning. The unexpected can lead to either great laughs or great humiliation, depending on which end you're on.
Which begs the question: If I start ASSUMING that I will ALWAYS do something stupid when I wasn't intending to, will I never feel humiliated again? Especially if I recognize that my doing something unexpected is helping someone else laugh/know for sure that they're not autistic?
I believe this could be another part of my quest in life to make things better for the people around me. Like the time Lori was having a really hard night, back in the day when we shared a room, and I fell out of my bed, just because I thought it would make her laugh. It hurt, too.
*If you'll forgive the pun. It was not intentional.
In my psycholinguistics class we learned that one of the signs (Not a telltale sign, but evidence nonetheless) of autism is lack of a sense of humor. This is mainly because most autistic kids don't have enough of a handle on reality to recognize when something is out of the ordinary. For example, if a kid with normal cognitive abilities watches a Looney Tunes clip in which the Roadrunner is running down the road, as he has a tendency to do, and then suddenly runs into a mountain that is smack in the middle of the road, he or she (the kid) will laugh. A normal person would realize that usually mountains do not sit in the middle of roads, and thus will find that funny. The humor lies in the unexpected.
I think it's the same thing with humiliation. I think the root of feeling embarrassed about something happening to you lies in the fact that you don't expect it. As a slightly revelatory* example: when I was modeling (in a bikini) at BYU, one day I did a slightly athletic pose and my breast fell out of my top. Just for a moment. But I'll admit it was pretty embarrassing. Conversely, on Saturday I was lying on my back, while the teacher was leaning over me, completely naked, and didn't feel embarrassed at all. I think the main difference is that I was expecting to be naked and prepared for that moment, whereas the previous event had come out of nowhere.
Think about it. When you have a crush on someone and do something stupid in front of him/her, you are embarrassed not so much because of the act itself, but because in your mind, you don't expect to ever act like an idiot in front of someone you are trying to impress. If you fall in public, it's mostly because that wasn't your plan for yourself when you woke up that morning. The unexpected can lead to either great laughs or great humiliation, depending on which end you're on.
Which begs the question: If I start ASSUMING that I will ALWAYS do something stupid when I wasn't intending to, will I never feel humiliated again? Especially if I recognize that my doing something unexpected is helping someone else laugh/know for sure that they're not autistic?
I believe this could be another part of my quest in life to make things better for the people around me. Like the time Lori was having a really hard night, back in the day when we shared a room, and I fell out of my bed, just because I thought it would make her laugh. It hurt, too.
*If you'll forgive the pun. It was not intentional.
04 September, 2009
I love my little brother THIS much.
Today I spent a half hour or so talking with my little brother on the phone. This was his first week of classes at Gonzaga University in Spokane, Washington. Additionally, I was talking to Cori last night and she asked me if I thought it was weird that my baby brother, almost seven years younger than I am, and I are both in college at the same time. Which, the more I think about it, makes me feel like a bit of a late bloomer. I am cool with this. I am so happy that my brother got such a nice break to attend such a great school, and--most importantly-- that for two of the three Koler children, the high school years are over. For the last one, they haven't even started.
Please don't take this to mean I am anti-teenagers or embittered to this day about my high school experience. In fact, last month I learned something new about myself. Apparently, I am going to be one of those parents who gets unnecessarily excited/emotional at high school graduations. I know this because a few months ago I was at my little brother's graduation from my own alma mater and while I was there I got that swelling feeling in my chest that generally only happens at religious events or when I'm reading an author I really like. Additionally, I actually stood respectfully and put my hand over my heart while the Shorecrest band played the national anthem, which I never do. Something about being there, watching my little brother participate in the same odd traditions, wearing the same green-colored robes and flat hat, gave me the willies, but in a good way. It also apparently resurrected some dormant patriotism inside me, though whether it was patriotism towards my school only or my country in general I don't know.
The Beach Boys sang, with little to no irony: "Be true to your school/ just like you would to your girl." I graduated from high school in 2003, ten months after September 11th. I attended, if memory serves, one football game. In fact, I went to said game in order to see a cute boy who played for our cross-town rival (ShoreWOOD, as opposed to Shorecrest) and during that game he broke his leg and had to be carried off the field on a golf cart. I decided I must be bad luck, and I haven't been to any sort of football game since. I went to a few baseball games, also to see a boy I had a crush on, but he never got injured so I suppose my curse only applies to football.
Now that I think about it, though, I don't think the baseball-playing boy I liked ever actually played.
My point is, I liked high school well enough, though I definitely wasn't one of those kids who LOVED high school. I didn't paint my face for football games or jump up and down at Caen Laida or deeply, sincerely believe that those were the best years of my life, even as I was living them. That being said, high school wasn't a living hell either. I had lots of good friends and quite a few good teachers. My school had lots of great writing opportunities and my car only got booted in the parking lot once.
I am also delighted to say that my physical attractiveness did not peak in high school. Thank God.
There were only two high schools in our school district, as I said before, and the dividing line between the two schools was ALMOST the same as the dividing line between the rich neighborhoods and the poor neighborhoods, with the exception of one small area. Shorecrest covered most of the poorer areas and Shorewood covered the more expensive properties close to the water. The one exception was the area by the mall which contained nice, big houses but fell into Shorecrest's boundaries. This was where most of the honor students lived. It was not where I lived, though most of the rich kids drove down the main drag on which I lived on their way home.
I remember feeling a sort of sick pride at being the more "ghetto" school, for you see back in my day we used the word "ghetto" as an adjective without irony. The outside perception of both my high school and my neighborhood seemed to be that we were low class. The main justification from the SW kids was that we were the school with a daycare for the teenage mothers. However, I believe we were magnet school for that program, so that reason kinda flies out the window when you think about it logically. Why people thought Shoreline was low class is beyond me. Personally, I think it's a charming little 'burb. Once Cori, (Cor, please correct me if I have this story wrong) told someone she met at some Seattle-wide event that she was from Shoreline, and the girl said in all seriousness, "Oh, I've heard of that neighborhood. The place with all the shootings."
There was like one shooting I remember in all the years I lived in that neighborhood. A few accidental deaths, but really, nothing serious. I never felt nervous or unsafe going anywhere regardless of the time of day. Perhaps I am an idiot, but the more likely scenario is that Shoreline was perfectly safe and some young people are ignorant and assume that if a neighborhood has houses that are smaller than yours, the inhabitants are therefore gang members. Silly, silly children.
I was going to write more about my high school experience but nothing is really standing out for me right now. Except that I wish someone had told me explicitly that being a young adult is ONE HUNDRED MILLION TIMES BETTER than being in high school, no matter what kind of happiness you achieve between the ages of 14-18. Also, that being rejected from various positions of prestige loses its sting over the years, and by the time you are almost 25, will cease to sting at all.
What would YOU like to know about my high school experience? Ask me and I will answer.
Please don't take this to mean I am anti-teenagers or embittered to this day about my high school experience. In fact, last month I learned something new about myself. Apparently, I am going to be one of those parents who gets unnecessarily excited/emotional at high school graduations. I know this because a few months ago I was at my little brother's graduation from my own alma mater and while I was there I got that swelling feeling in my chest that generally only happens at religious events or when I'm reading an author I really like. Additionally, I actually stood respectfully and put my hand over my heart while the Shorecrest band played the national anthem, which I never do. Something about being there, watching my little brother participate in the same odd traditions, wearing the same green-colored robes and flat hat, gave me the willies, but in a good way. It also apparently resurrected some dormant patriotism inside me, though whether it was patriotism towards my school only or my country in general I don't know.
The Beach Boys sang, with little to no irony: "Be true to your school/ just like you would to your girl." I graduated from high school in 2003, ten months after September 11th. I attended, if memory serves, one football game. In fact, I went to said game in order to see a cute boy who played for our cross-town rival (ShoreWOOD, as opposed to Shorecrest) and during that game he broke his leg and had to be carried off the field on a golf cart. I decided I must be bad luck, and I haven't been to any sort of football game since. I went to a few baseball games, also to see a boy I had a crush on, but he never got injured so I suppose my curse only applies to football.
Now that I think about it, though, I don't think the baseball-playing boy I liked ever actually played.
My point is, I liked high school well enough, though I definitely wasn't one of those kids who LOVED high school. I didn't paint my face for football games or jump up and down at Caen Laida or deeply, sincerely believe that those were the best years of my life, even as I was living them. That being said, high school wasn't a living hell either. I had lots of good friends and quite a few good teachers. My school had lots of great writing opportunities and my car only got booted in the parking lot once.
I am also delighted to say that my physical attractiveness did not peak in high school. Thank God.
There were only two high schools in our school district, as I said before, and the dividing line between the two schools was ALMOST the same as the dividing line between the rich neighborhoods and the poor neighborhoods, with the exception of one small area. Shorecrest covered most of the poorer areas and Shorewood covered the more expensive properties close to the water. The one exception was the area by the mall which contained nice, big houses but fell into Shorecrest's boundaries. This was where most of the honor students lived. It was not where I lived, though most of the rich kids drove down the main drag on which I lived on their way home.
I remember feeling a sort of sick pride at being the more "ghetto" school, for you see back in my day we used the word "ghetto" as an adjective without irony. The outside perception of both my high school and my neighborhood seemed to be that we were low class. The main justification from the SW kids was that we were the school with a daycare for the teenage mothers. However, I believe we were magnet school for that program, so that reason kinda flies out the window when you think about it logically. Why people thought Shoreline was low class is beyond me. Personally, I think it's a charming little 'burb. Once Cori, (Cor, please correct me if I have this story wrong) told someone she met at some Seattle-wide event that she was from Shoreline, and the girl said in all seriousness, "Oh, I've heard of that neighborhood. The place with all the shootings."
There was like one shooting I remember in all the years I lived in that neighborhood. A few accidental deaths, but really, nothing serious. I never felt nervous or unsafe going anywhere regardless of the time of day. Perhaps I am an idiot, but the more likely scenario is that Shoreline was perfectly safe and some young people are ignorant and assume that if a neighborhood has houses that are smaller than yours, the inhabitants are therefore gang members. Silly, silly children.
I was going to write more about my high school experience but nothing is really standing out for me right now. Except that I wish someone had told me explicitly that being a young adult is ONE HUNDRED MILLION TIMES BETTER than being in high school, no matter what kind of happiness you achieve between the ages of 14-18. Also, that being rejected from various positions of prestige loses its sting over the years, and by the time you are almost 25, will cease to sting at all.
What would YOU like to know about my high school experience? Ask me and I will answer.
28 August, 2009
In which I cuss once but star one cruc*al letter
I lead an ersatz life.
This is a way fun vocabulary exercise if you're ever looking for one. When you're looking up a word to try and figure out what it means, attempt to use it to describe your life and see if you can draw any interesting parallels or conclusions. A bad example would be "pharmacodynamic," because by plugging this word into the sentence "I lead a _____________ life" the word remains overly specific and generally useless. My life has nothing to do with the the physiological effects of drugs on the human body, rendering this vocabulary word irrelevant to my life. Not so with my word of the day!
Ersatz. A definition from the Oxford English Dictionary, the only dictionary worth using:
"A substitute or imitation (usually, an inferior article instead of the real thing)."
Sometimes words get stuck in my head just like songs get stuck in normal people's heads. Today was one of those days, and as the word "ersatz" played over and over again in my head like a Cheap Time LP, I realized that I do, in fact, lead quite an ersatz life. I don't necessarily mean that in a bad way, but the truth is, nothing in my life has gone the way I've planned at any point.
My life goals at the age of 5: Grow up and be tall, thin and beautiful. I distinctly remember (at the age of 6) wanting to be so beautiful that people would stare when I went out in public. Live in a house with a three-car garage. Never attend college. Be a police officer/teacher/vet. Own a pet giraffe.
My life goals at the age of 10: Grow up and be tall, thin and beautiful. Marry a guy who is in the army straight out of high school. Have eight children in seven years (Duh. Twins.) My husband goes off to war and dies. Raise children alone. Never attend college.
My life goals at the age of 15: Grow up and be thin and beautiful. (By this time I had given up on the tall.) Go to a school on the East Coast. Marry a Mormon guy while in college. Get a PhD in English and be a poet on the side while raising kids. Have no need to support myself.
My life goals at the age of 20: Grow up to be beautiful and thinner than at-the-time weight. Attend college. Get married ASAP. Own a pet dog. Once graduated, have no need to support myself.
My life as of now: I have grown up. I have attended college in the Intermountain West, served a mission, presented at international conferences, traveled to Europe and Asia, bought a car, and almost received a college degree. I have a pet dog (an ersatz baby) whom I love more than is probably healthy, considering the life span of dogs. I still occasionally consider getting a PhD, but mostly because I like the idea of being able to have the following conversation if necessary someday:
My high school enemy/mission comp I didn't like at some future reunion-type event: So, still not married, eh, Koler?
Me: That's DOCTOR Koler, b*tch!
Oh, that would be sweet.
Sometimes I dress up in a skirt and high heels and walk around Home Depot, just because it feels good to be looked at in that way. Normally, though, I go barefoot a lot. I don't wear much make-up. I am healthy, but not particularly beautiful. I garden. I like hip hop and comic books.
Now none of this is intended to be a fishery (?) for compliments or a complaint fest or an attempt to make anyone feel sorry for me. If you read this blog with any regularity, I hope you can see through the cynicism and exaggeration enough to see that I absolutely love my life, the way is it right now. But the fact is, it is not the life I assumed I would have five or ten or fifteen years ago. Not by a long shot. Which partly makes me aware that for now, some ersatz things can be perfectly acceptable substitutes for what is missing in my life (I'm thinking of the baby-dog thing right now). But most of it is ONE MILLION TIMES BETTER than I ever could have expected, or hoped. Although I lead an ersatz life, what I have right now is in no way inferior to my original assumption of how it would be. I will even go so far as to say it is better.
Except I still wish I could have a pet giraffe.
Also, don't ask me why I thought three-car garages were cool in 1989. Must have been a yuppie thing.
This is a way fun vocabulary exercise if you're ever looking for one. When you're looking up a word to try and figure out what it means, attempt to use it to describe your life and see if you can draw any interesting parallels or conclusions. A bad example would be "pharmacodynamic," because by plugging this word into the sentence "I lead a _____________ life" the word remains overly specific and generally useless. My life has nothing to do with the the physiological effects of drugs on the human body, rendering this vocabulary word irrelevant to my life. Not so with my word of the day!
Ersatz. A definition from the Oxford English Dictionary, the only dictionary worth using:
"A substitute or imitation (usually, an inferior article instead of the real thing)."
Sometimes words get stuck in my head just like songs get stuck in normal people's heads. Today was one of those days, and as the word "ersatz" played over and over again in my head like a Cheap Time LP, I realized that I do, in fact, lead quite an ersatz life. I don't necessarily mean that in a bad way, but the truth is, nothing in my life has gone the way I've planned at any point.
My life goals at the age of 5: Grow up and be tall, thin and beautiful. I distinctly remember (at the age of 6) wanting to be so beautiful that people would stare when I went out in public. Live in a house with a three-car garage. Never attend college. Be a police officer/teacher/vet. Own a pet giraffe.
My life goals at the age of 10: Grow up and be tall, thin and beautiful. Marry a guy who is in the army straight out of high school. Have eight children in seven years (Duh. Twins.) My husband goes off to war and dies. Raise children alone. Never attend college.
My life goals at the age of 15: Grow up and be thin and beautiful. (By this time I had given up on the tall.) Go to a school on the East Coast. Marry a Mormon guy while in college. Get a PhD in English and be a poet on the side while raising kids. Have no need to support myself.
My life goals at the age of 20: Grow up to be beautiful and thinner than at-the-time weight. Attend college. Get married ASAP. Own a pet dog. Once graduated, have no need to support myself.
My life as of now: I have grown up. I have attended college in the Intermountain West, served a mission, presented at international conferences, traveled to Europe and Asia, bought a car, and almost received a college degree. I have a pet dog (an ersatz baby) whom I love more than is probably healthy, considering the life span of dogs. I still occasionally consider getting a PhD, but mostly because I like the idea of being able to have the following conversation if necessary someday:
My high school enemy/mission comp I didn't like at some future reunion-type event: So, still not married, eh, Koler?
Me: That's DOCTOR Koler, b*tch!
Oh, that would be sweet.
Sometimes I dress up in a skirt and high heels and walk around Home Depot, just because it feels good to be looked at in that way. Normally, though, I go barefoot a lot. I don't wear much make-up. I am healthy, but not particularly beautiful. I garden. I like hip hop and comic books.
Now none of this is intended to be a fishery (?) for compliments or a complaint fest or an attempt to make anyone feel sorry for me. If you read this blog with any regularity, I hope you can see through the cynicism and exaggeration enough to see that I absolutely love my life, the way is it right now. But the fact is, it is not the life I assumed I would have five or ten or fifteen years ago. Not by a long shot. Which partly makes me aware that for now, some ersatz things can be perfectly acceptable substitutes for what is missing in my life (I'm thinking of the baby-dog thing right now). But most of it is ONE MILLION TIMES BETTER than I ever could have expected, or hoped. Although I lead an ersatz life, what I have right now is in no way inferior to my original assumption of how it would be. I will even go so far as to say it is better.
Except I still wish I could have a pet giraffe.
Also, don't ask me why I thought three-car garages were cool in 1989. Must have been a yuppie thing.
25 August, 2009
Gentlemen, when I take an honest look at my life, I realize I've never not been a hippie.
Two days ago, I attended one of the many dedicatory sessions of the Oquirrh (pronounced oak-er) Mountain Temple, which is pictured above. Before the session began, and while I was at my most alert, they ran a continuous slideshow of shots of the temple's interior, which is simple and incredibly lovely. I realized then that my absolute favorite place to be, hands down, is in the temple. Which I take to mean that despite my innumerable weaknesses and flaws, I must be doing SOMETHING right.This is not the topic of my post.
Ever since the dedication of the Kirtland Temple in way long time many years ago, the following song has been sung when a new temple is built. I'm actually not positive that the song has been sung at every temple dedication ever, but I have been to four and it was sung at all of those. Called the Hosanna Anthem, its lyrics are reproduced below.
The House of the Lord is completed!
The House of the Lord is completed!
May our offering by Him be accepted.
May our offering by Him be accepted.
Amen. Amen.
Rejoice, O ye saints whose patient faith and labor
Have reared this house wherein today ye stand.
Rejoice ye blessed departed saintly spirits!
Behold your temple finished crowns the land!
Rejoice ye souls awaiting your redemption!.
The work speeds on to set the captive free.
Thanks be to God for His eternal mercies!
Thanks be to God for endless liberty.
Nice, huh? I've never really paid attention to these words before. However, on Sunday a particular phrase in this song stuck out to me. The one in bold: "Rejoice, O ye saints whose patient faith and labor/ have reared this house wherein today ye stand."
Back in the early days of the Church, every member of the Church was personally involved in the construction of the temple. Men donated a day or two out of every work week to do construction or mine stone. Women spent hours preparing meals for workers, sewing curtains and temple clothing, and crushing china for various purposes (This is off the cuff, I haven't done any research ... but it sounds right). Anyway, when they talk about their patient faith and labor culminating in the completion of the temple, that actually MEANT something for them. Everyone in Kirtland had a literal hand in the building of that building, which certainly must have made it all the more significant for them personally.
By contrast, I did not make it to the open house of the Oquirrh Mountain Temple. Before the dedicatory session, I didn't even know what it looked like. It was built about a half an hour from my house, and my personal involvement therein was essentially nil. And thus, I felt a peace and happiness about the completion of the temple and its existence, but no real relationship to it--at least, not to the building itself.
Conversely, today I volunteered for a few hours with Habitat for Humanity. We were clearing a lot for building, which was both a nice workout and an excellent throwback to Pioneer Times (I'm assuming again, I wasn't there). Being involved in the process of building a house was good for my soul. It made me want to do a really good job, even though I was just clearing brush. I feel that way about a lot of things in my life: that if I have a tangible, kinesthetic relationship with something in my life, that relationship is much more meaningful. It's true about my food: when I eat something from our garden, I relish (bad pun?) the connection I feel with the plants I've been tending for however many months. Sometimes I even get a little bit nostalgic: "Oh, I remember when you were just a wittle bitty seed..." For the past few weeks Pamela and I have been painting our dining and living rooms, and it it remarkable how much more connected I feel to this house now that a few hours of my life have been invested in it. The greater the physical connection you have with something, the greater the overall connection as well, it would seem.
This makes me want to build my own house. Like Harrison Ford.
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