The Right to ReAssess

'It's a woman's prerogative to change her mind'

I've often heard it said by both men and women - men in long-suffering exasperation and women as a minimizing excuse to brush away the shame of being 'inconstant'.

Politicians are also shamed for having a change of position by being called 'flip-floppers'.

Frankly, I find this a vastly curious occurrence in today's culture which celebrates the 'no-fault divorce'. Commitments, especially within families, seem to have less and less value in society. And yet the idea that people can make an initial assessment and then must be bound to it for the convenience of the then established preconceptions of others is rampant! Women are given a partial 'bye' in deference to their hormonal 'irrationality' (condescending much?) but I suspect that is only because the men who quote it realize they can't change women so easily as they did historically.

It is amusing that it looks to be a level of laziness that condemns the changing of the mind when the changing of the mind requires engagement with the material being considered. Laziness resents activity? You know, that sounds accurate.

I'm sure some of you are pointing out the flaw in this that politicians change their positions according to the whims of public winds. Yes, many do. But I ask you, how many shifts are discounted as political pandering that are actually fair reassessment? Have you never made an initial evaluation of something and then realized over time that there was more to the issue than you'd first understood? Often times we think things translate directly from one medium to another (state government compared to federal, book to screen, family life to family life) but then learn it's a whole different nature you'd never comprehended. If learning and seeing something from a new angle means a different interpretation, why do we tell ourselves and others that makes us disingenuous? False? Hypocritical? If anything, it seems to me that continuing to hold to a now invalid assessment would be so while admitting to our learning process would best show our true character - willing to admit we don't know everything and are willing to learn.

It occurs that perhaps part of the problem is that so many seem anxious to have everyone labeled according to their positions on this matter or that. I think it must simplify their world view. That means that people are encouraged to jump to conclusions well before they might otherwise be ready to. I also think society has been training us to make instant assessments for these same reasons. This seems flawed to me and I'd guess it to be a causal nature to the high rate of changed positions, dissolved marriages, and ridiculous maelstrom we call politics.

The solution is two-fold and quite simple. We must simply recognize that it's ok to not form an opinion until we actually know what we think about something regardless of outside pressure. And it is also valid to realize our perspective has changed with experience and new information and change said opinion accordingly.

Proverbs 4:7

Wisdom is the principle thing; therefore get wisdom: 

and with all thy getting get understanding.

You say, Sir, you hate Christmas

You say, Sir, you hate Christmas

List grievances not few

But I wonder if you have thought

These grievances quite through.

There's jangles and there's spangles

Mass frenzy for new toys

But stop to hear the quiet

Of the stable 'midst the noise.

His birth's been near forgotten

Its purpose been replaced

The promise in the life He led

In pop culture now debased.

But that promise holds forever strong

Regardless of the noise

Delight in that, ignore the rest,

Return to Christ-mas joys.

So, please, Sir, don't hate Christmas

But spread the truth drawn here

For Christmas is God's gift, through birth,

To draw His children near.

<written 6/24/2012>

Finding Mom, November 2, 2004 (written 2008)

Ugh! Light! What time is it? I pry my eyelids apart to look at the clock. 7:30.

You should probably get up, my responsible conscience tells me, ‘and get ready so you can go vote.’ It’s November 2, 2004 and all of the Political Science classes have been cancelled for the day to encourage voter turnout.

I should get up, I think, even as my consciousness slips under. I know our government requires responsible citizenship to function at its best. I know it’s said that you can’t complain if you don’t vote. I know there are many third, and even second and first world countries that do not have the political freedoms we have available to us in the United States of America. I know. Too tired. I can go after school. And so I sleep for another hour. After all, you don’t have to be first in line to be responsible. I have been excited to vote, though – this will be my first presidential election.

An hour later and I make myself get up. I’m still exhausted, but that’s nothing new: 15 credit hours at the University and either burn-out or let-down in every other part of a life can do that to a person. Fiddler on the Roof had ended mid-September and that had been my escape.

‘Escape?’ you ask. ‘Escape from what?’ Escape from the responsibilities of the eldest and the unreachable but still required expectations of the father. Escape from the diagrams keeping track of how much of the house still needed painted. Escape from keeping the house immaculate for sale so that we can move to a house that doesn’t have so many stairs so Mom can use her wheelchair. Escape from the sale that fell through taking my hopes of relief with it.

Escape from the schedules compulsively drawn by a psyche overwhelmed with responsibility placed in the same time restraints all others must live under. Escape from a mother’s many debilitating illnesses, her resulting dependence, anxiety, and depression, and the strain of being the dependable turn-to for everyone needing something and everything needing done. Escape from my dependability being expected, demanded, but never appreciated. Escape from Mom’s whimpering and moaning when the pain was too much and knowing there was nothing I could do to take it away. Escape from the panic that I wouldn’t be able to maintain it all taking the rest of the energy I didn’t have to keep the panic at bay.

But the show was over and there was no escape. Religion brings enough relief to continue, but Dad’s attacks lessen what relief it could give. I am an active member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, more commonly known as LDS or Mormons. So is my Dad. But where I took refuge in going to church, activities with my singles' ward (read 'geographic congregation' for 'ward'), and would spend what free hours I could at the Institute building (a religious education system the church provides as companion to higher secular education), Dad sees my activity only in regards to and as intended commentary on his own scattered attendance. "You think you're better than us because you go to all your meetings, but you're just a self-righteous, hypocritical Pharisee and you know what the Savior thought of them!"

No, there was no escape. While Mom was sick, my personal purpose, and therefore my identity and resulting satisfaction, would be found in knowing I was doing everything I could to limit Mom’s difficulties so she would have the energy to fight on. Meanwhile, I too must fight on.

I take a quick pit-stop in the bathroom and then head downstairs to grab some breakfast. J’s already up and watching cartoons from the daybed Mom used to occupy before she moved upstairs permanently. J’s ten and the youngest of the four girls. Her track is off in the over-crowded year-round school system remedy which means I don’t need to worry about getting her there.

I head back upstairs to take a shower. I glance into Mom’s room and notice she’s sleeping. It looks like she fell asleep while stretching her back – mid-twist. I consider waking her since her position is sure to cause soreness later, but decide against it. Sleep has been difficult for her to come by of late and if she’s able to sleep, it is best to let her. And so I shower.

I love showers. I love the feel of the water in constant rhythm against my skin, washing everything away. I love the smell of the soap that makes me imagine I am somewhere far away myself. I love the smell of the shampoo and conditioner, too: ocean breeze. I’ve only been to the ocean once, but I remember how big it was, the smell, and the feeling that I was on the edge of the world and that all I had to do was step across that edge and I could be anywhere. Yes, I love showers. It is good that the water heater is limited in size for life cannot be lived in a shower.

The shower’s over and I finish getting ready. Mom’s still sleeping. I go downstairs and pull my backpack together. J’s watching Scooby Doo. She’s wearing her purple bathrobe and her Scooby Doo slippers. She says she’s already eaten. I ditch my bag on the piano bench by the front door to wake Mom before I leave. She’s been in the same position for too long – she needs to move so the pain will be limited. Hopefully the pain won’t be too bad, but she needed the sleep.

I stand at her door and call a few times. She really must be tired. I negotiate my way to her side of the bed and gently shake her shoulder. She is twisted to the right with her left arm stretched across and her face hidden in her right arm and under her hair. She does not respond.

“Mom? Please wake up – you’re scaring me.”

I’ve had CPR and First-Aid training many times. I know that you’re supposed to try to get a response. If they don’t respond to normal sound, you try physical touch and calling more loudly – in their ear if need be. I choose proximity to decibels, mindful of J downstairs. No response. My pulse quickens even as it runs chill. I circle to the other side of the bed to try shaking more directly. Still nothing. My mind catalogs the details that she’s cold and stiff and maybe even blue but I force them under lock and key: I am not a doctor and I know high anxiety can be the cause of mistakes. I search for a pulse and find none. It was never this hard to find during certification, but then again, I was never trying to find it under mounting pressure.

I spend a minute debating inside whether to bother Dad or not. He left early this morning to go back to Jackson Hole to finish his repairs. I’m wary of calling 911 for the same reason. What if I’m missing something? What if I make a big deal out of a little thing and add more stress to everyone’s life – be it in bothering Dad or an ambulance and emergency room bill and then find out it isn’t anything to worry about? Heaven knows we have enough medical bills. I decide to call Dad and let him decide.

He answers and I tell him I can’t get Mom to wake up. He says to call 911 and to call G. When he asks, I tell him I hadn’t before because I was afraid I was missing something that meant it was ok. I think he hears the repressed panic in my voice. He says, “Call G, call 911.” I am confused. Which one do I call first – he gave different orders. Dad is frustrated. “Call 911 first, then call G.” He hangs up so I can call 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My mom won’t wake up.”
“Where is your location?” I give my address. “Is she breathing?”
“I can’t tell. She’s rolled over. I don’t think so.”
“Roll her onto her back.”
“I can’t. I never could on my own. She always had to help.”
“Is there anyone there with you?”
“My little sister’s downstairs.”
“Have her help.”
“No. She’s only 10.”
“Well, if you’re not going to cooperate, there’s nothing else I can do. The ambulance is on its way and should be there shortly.” She hangs up.

Now to call G. G. One of Mom's friends. She had been, and maybe she still is, Mom's visiting teacher (read a buddy-system in our church's women's society) and is one of the few who have been at ease with Mom and her sever illnesses, having one herself. She's a tiny little woman with a whole lot of heart. Call G. I don’t know her number. I can’t find Mom’s ward directory by her bed. I look in the kitchen and at the desk and still I can’t find it. I ask J if she knows where it is. She looks, I look. I freeze when I see her coming down the stairs with it in her hand. I can’t tell her – she’s only 10. I can’t tell myself – this is my whole identity.

I call G. I tell her Mom won’t wake up. I tell her an ambulance is coming. Can she come over? She says they’ll be there in a minute. I call Sister F, too. She brought her puppy over once to visit with Mom. I think she’s the Relief Society President. She’s not, but she says she’ll get a hold of the people who need to know.
I hear a knock. It’s the first EMT guy. That was fast. It had only been a few minutes. I hadn’t heard a siren. J’s still watching Scooby Doo and doesn’t even notice as I lead him to Mom. He throws the bed-side table down the walkway so he can get to Mom uninhibited. I crouch to pick up the laptop and get everything out of harm’s way. I stand in time to see him roll her over. I see her face and the lock-down is complete. Her mouth is stretched into a grin and there is a purple pooling around her cheeks and nose as though blood had settled underneath the skin. The EMT sees my face and makes me leave. I have to stay downstairs, he says.
More EMTs come up as I go down. G and her son, Z, squeeze past with the group. J is starting to notice and wants to know what is happening. Dad calls back and wants to know what is happening, too. I tell him the EMTs are upstairs with her. A police officer is there and I pass the phone to him. He tells Dad that there is no word yet. Dad is coming home. I don’t know what G tells J. Maybe the officer talks to her.

G asks if she can get me anything. I tell her I want my quilt. I tell her they said I can’t go up there. She sneaks up and gets it for me. I wrap it tight.

More people come. Relief Society sisters, the home ward Bishop - Bishop S. Sister F must have called them. Uncle S and Aunt T show up, too. Dad must have called them. My Bishop - Bishop U - and his wife come. I called them.

The EMT comes down. “I’m sorry,” he says. “We did all we could. She was already dead.”

Somebody holds J.

The police officer tells us they have called the mortuary. We can go see her one last time before they come for her body. I am afraid. The church support group says I should not be. I want them to see the death mask so they will understand. We go upstairs. Mom is lying on the floor next to the bed. A blanket covers her so that only her face shows. The blood pool is gone. They don’t understand. The mortuary comes and they make us, me and J, stay downstairs while they take the body. Someone stands in the way so I won’t see anything through the railing.

G asks if I want to sleep. I don’t want to close my eyes. Dad calls back. I think Uncle S tells him, maybe Bishop S. Bishop S decides to take Z to go meet Dad so he’s not driving alone. The Relief Society sisters ask what they can do to help. My mind is blank. We’ve taken care of everything for so many years and we’re good at it. Nothing much needs done. I remember the potatoes I’ve been meaning to harvest for weeks but haven’t had the time or energy to get to. The sisters are pleased to have something to do. I get the garden tool box from the garage and they go out back.

The police officer is about to leave. I think he gives his contact information to G. He gives me a hug and says good-bye.

I’m on the front-porch. My blanket is around me. The day is as calm and unruffled as the blankness inside. I wander across the yard to look through the fence. The potatoes are small but numerous. The bright sun is warm through the blanket.

Uncle S and Aunt T take J and me to the high school. We have to tell M and S. Lunch has just started. S had said her locker was upstairs. I go and see her coming. My face tells her before my voice does. We look for M but can’t find her. We go back to the office. They let us use a back conference room. Someone brings us simple snacks while we try to determine where M is. I go to the choir room – sometimes she spends lunch there. They don’t know where she is. I go back to the office. I stop at the attendance desk. Since Mom’s dead, she can’t be the emergency contact. I have them put me down instead. I go back to the conference room. Somebody found M and now it’s time to go. The secretaries tell us not to worry about the rest of the week.

S and T take us home. The others get their blankets and then S takes us to their home. The sisters sleep. I pretend to. Grandma has come. Maybe I do sleep. Dad comes. He laughs that Bishop’s van broke down and he ended up giving them a ride back. The night is dark. Eventually we go home. Exhaustion conquers all.

***
I had known that Mom would die. It only made sense. As the stress on her systems was magnified by the layered illnesses, it was obvious that, at some point, it would be too much for her body to maintain. I’d just thought it would take two more years. It was months before I finally realized why. There was no logical cause for the connection, but it held. I remembered that cause when I revisited the J. K. Rowling web-site. That summer I had read her autobiography that she has on the site. In it, I had been stunned to learn that Rowling’s mom had also had Multiple Sclerosis. She had died at the age of 45. Mom was 43. I remember thinking, 45. Two more years. I can’t go on forever, but I can do two more years. I was trying to fortify myself to face it.

***
It has been nearly four years. Mom’s death has become the time-central event in my life. Just as history is marked forward and backward from Christ’s birth, so I mark time with Mom’s death. “When did (this) happen? Mom was alive, so it was at least this long ago.”

***
I remember asking Dad what my new role was supposed to be. He was confused. I explained that before, it was to take care of Mom. Dad got mad. He said that it had been his responsibility to take care of Mom. He seemed angry that I should have any right to that claim. He did not give me an answer.

For years I saw myself, my identity, as broken, shattered. I am now learning to be myself and have been happily surprised to find I enjoy it and others seem to as well. It has required I stop talking to Dad and that I not let him talk to me. There has been much difficulty, but I sense that things are now as they should be. And I am coming to know hope. Sometimes I am still tired, but now there is hope.

***
Mom’s parents are still alive. Dad’s parents are still alive. My step-mother’s parents are still alive. Most people’s are. Instead, I have pretend moms. They are women who have known me and somehow love me. None of them are always there, but between them there is almost always someone. There isn’t the strength of blood, but it helps to pretend. And I have found family in church: siblings, parents, now even grandparents. Perhaps I can never return to the home that was and was not, but I have found welcome in many hearts around me. Perhaps they can be home.

I still spend many free hours at church and Institute. It is no longer serving double-duty as a life preserver, but has returned to its standard place as center of my life. I have learned that it is unwise to take Dad's pronouncements of the Savior's opinions of me as factual, and have found great relief in simply living my own life as best I can and trusting Him to see and judge fairly.

November 2, 2004 was a death blow to a floundering child's prayer for a happy, healthy home and family life. But it also cut the strongest string tying me to an unhealthy situation. What was is dead, and at times I still mourn that death, but I would not give up the life I have found growing in its place. Mom's life slipped beyond the mortal realm that day, but now, here, mine is just beginning.

***

November 4, 2008 is coming up. I am excited: it will be my first Presidential Election.

Crumbs From the Master's Table

Floating on the ocean
As sea-craft sail on by
For so long treading water
Too tired to wonder why
The few that let me rest myself
Resented it in turn
As though they thought me negligent
To leave my aching churn.

Perhaps they thought they saw a ship
Not unlike their own
Where safety, love, and family held
And I like traitor flown.
But if there ever was such ship
My place was galley slave
To row or tug or slop or scout
But never freedom gave.

But now cut free the truth is such -
I've ever orphan been
To wander oft from home to home
In hope I'd catch them when
They had a crust of love to share
A welcome, word, or rest
'Fore they recall I'm not their own
And shoo me from the nest.

For orphans live on scavenged meals
And rags and scattered floors
So long as someone finds a need
In extra random chores.
Ever moving, shifting, change
Gives safety and makes stable
By making sure to glean the crumbs
From many a master's table.

<written 2/25/2013>

Mirrors

The year after I moved away from home, I was at a friend's house for the holidays and came across The Pretender, a TV series from the late 1990s, while browsing their story collection. Since my work had an automatic week off built in between Christmas and New Year's, I had ample time to devour this new story.

With food for the body and food for the mind, I tend to go through a sort of seasons. At one time, I may always crave cheese, or tuna salad, or my veggie concoction... Then I'll hit a point where that item is no longer fulfilling and I'll rarely eat it over the next year or so. I suspect it has to do with particular nutritional needs at any given time. The same applies to stories. When I come across the right story at the right time, it become integral to my diet until whichever insight need has been fulfilled. This explains my pre-occupations that were so focused on Merlin a couple months ago and The Avengers a couple months before that. (I have long been aware of this pattern, I simply explain it for the reader's understanding.)

In the case of The Pretender, the most obvious connection is found in the back-story of a hero who had been held captive since, being discovered as a genius, childhood who finally escaped the people who only wanted to use and control him while learning and experiencing the normal life elements he had missed in captivity. Being in the process of breaking with home and extricating my identity and will from the messed-up manipulations and expectations and demands that kept me bound to it, the literal fight for understanding and independence and the joy of being free resonated deeply in my spirit.

The were many specific parts of the show that also left deep impressions, but the one that was most important was in an episode about identity. I do not remember the particulars, the season, episode title, episode details, etc... What I do remember is that Jarod, the hero, had reason to remember back to his time in 'The Center' (where he'd been held captive) when he refused to solve some puzzle because he'd become aware that he had never even seen his face in a mirror. He didn't know who he was or where he came from, where his parents were, even his last name. He knew they wouldn't give him any other information, but at the moment, he needed to know what he looked like - to see what/who he was.

During this same time period, I'd been struggling with the recognition that while the gospel taught me that God loved me and that I could find peace in doing my best, my dad's constant echoes and his perception of me (recall that these perceptions had me to the point of feeling guilty for even existing...) would regularly drown out that peace. It was a fair roller-coaster ride trying to handle the polar opposites. It was also greatly upsetting in trying to understand how the man who should be my protector was my greatest torment and how the one who should love me most constantly thought such evil of me. My nature has always been one to respond quickly to expectations and guidance so to be treated with such a heavy, emotionally rough hand left deeper wounds than might otherwise have been suffered.

Reflecting back, further in time, I have always had a talent for avoiding notice (surely made stronger by trying to avoid further negative attention at home) to the point that I'd be surprised to see myself in a picture. I'd also be surprised to see what I looked like since, even having a mirror, I'd never actually look at myself, just focus on the particulars that needed attention - hair, eyelashes for mascara, etc... I think I was scared to see that I really was the terrible, worthless person God surely despised the way dad always made me out to be. In fact, to see myself, having no intrinsic value, I had to look through the eyes of others. Furthermore, walking around the halls in high school, I often felt like a pair of floating eyeballs: seeing, observing, but never seen. Never part. All there was to see was either neutral or negative.

When I made it to this particular episode (perhaps on the second time through, I can't be sure), all these elements had been percolating for some time. When Sydney, Jarod's mentor/handler, finally obtained permission to let him look in a mirror, Sydney told him, "This is who you are." I'm pretty sure I paused the show for quiet because at the same time, it was as if a concept unfolded in my mind. It was symbolized by a tall, standing mirror that I knew was my dad's, with him in front of it. I was standing apart. To make the meaning more readily understood, imagine everyone with their own mirror. But I didn't have one. I had to go by the reflections in everyone else's mirrors. Returning to my image of just my dad's mirror, it was as though the Spirit told me to take a close look at his mirror. It was covered with dirt and grime and dust and stains. Suddenly I understood that dad's view of me was so negative not because I was so horrible, but because the means he was using to view me was filthy. When I heard, "This is who you are" I also 'heard' Heavenly Father say, "You need to use my mirror to see who you really are, not his, not theirs. Your own. Mine."

It was, for me, a revolutionary concept. Probably basic for many others, but then many others have not lived my life with my personal nature, either. I cannot say I have it down all the way, but with every passing year, my own mirror is clearer and the reflections of others less so. I still stumble and get distracted sometimes, but then something reminds me of this epiphany and I remember to look in the right mirror again. I'm writing this blog now because I just went through this process again this week.

This concept reminds me of the scripture in 1 Corinthians 13:12.

 12 For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

Someday all the mirrors will be clear and we won't get distracted and confused by the distorted reflections of smudged looking glasses, dirty mirrors. Someday we will know, without question, the value God sees in each of us and in each other. Until then, we just need to be careful about our mirrors. Are we using our own, and are we keeping them as clean and clear as we can? It will affect how we judge others. It will affect how we judge ourselves.

(P.S. If any of you have watched The Pretender, you may have noticed it begins to leave a darker feeling the further it progresses. I did not realize that until trying to watch it again last year when I found I had to only watch a few shows at a time to avoid a build-up of home feelings and thought patterns in my mind. I can only assume that having come so freshly from such a negative situation and still freshly battling the wrong patterns, the show's 'vibe' meshed so well with what I had come from it was unnoticeable at the time. Once I was far more free of it, the distinction was much more apparent.)

Original and Also-rans

The issue of 'original' and intrinsic verses extraneously applied value.

This is an idea that I have heard referenced directly and by implication multiple times in the past months, and I'm sure if you stop to consider it, you will will realize the same is true for you. Have you not heard the lament that, 'Nothing is new in the world', as if 'newness' is a core requirement for anything to be considered worthy of our short attention spans? Or what about the idea that if someone else 'discovered' or 'thought of' something before someone else, the second person's individual path to understanding has no merit because they weren't 'first'? Consider the following quote from Clive Cussler's Treasure.

'If Junius Venator's voyage to the Americas was absolutely proved ... history books needed to be revised and new chapters written.
'Poor Leif Eriksson and Christopher Columbus would be relegated to also-ran footnotes!'(p. 455 italics added for emphasis)

Granted, Cussler explores historical possibilities and modern implications of such fascinating possibilities in his adventures rather than known fact, but I think my stance on the matter shines through clearly. Why, why, why does a thing have to be the first one ever to have full merit? Two people come up with the same eureka moment completely separately from each other but one does it a few years before the other, so the second person's journey doesn't measure up? 

Or consider in the more mundane world as opposed to the cutting-edge of the arts and sciences. (Odd that they can be paired at all, no?) One community faces a difficulty and after much struggle, they come upon a solution that finally gets things back in order. Another community comes to be in the same situation. If so much value and worth is declared in doing something no one else has done before, do they ignore the solution right in front of them because it is devalued as unoriginal? Is the modern world so stubborn that we insist on seeking something different just because we can't respect or even see any value in something classic?

I know that there are places and venues where the drive for the new is something we all understandably appreciate. Most of us would abhor being bound to the original generations of the computers and cell-phones. I'm not saying that thinking should be confined to the list of what has been done before. They did that in the dark ages, and society rather decayed. I am saying that it might be good to consider the 'also-rans' in another light.

According to dictionary.com, 'original' has five top-listed definitions.

o·rig·i·nal

  [uh-rij-uh-nl]

adjective

1.

belonging or pertaining to the origin or beginning of something, or to a thing at its beginning: The book still has its original binding.

2.

new; fresh; inventive; novel: an original way of advertising.

3.

arising or proceeding independently of anything else: an original view of history.

4.

capable of or given to thinking or acting in an independent, creative, or individual manner: an original thinker.

5.

created, undertaken, or presented for the first time: to give the original performance of a string quartet.

The modern world seems to have an obsession with definitions two and five while disregarding one, three, and four. They only want something new, ever looking, never satisfied, simply because as soon as the something 'new' is found, it becomes 'old' and invalidated. Rather, consider the terms 'independent' and 'individual'. If we chose to focus on the value of the person's journey for its value to them rather than whether it entertained our own boredom, we would discover a world overflowing with value. Lots of 'value' there, but then that is the point. I still remember the moment, around age seven, when I made the connection between 'pancake' and 'pan' + 'cake', i.e. a cake made in a pan. I was quite excited when I explained it to another but they just looked at me like 'Yeah, so? Duh. Why even mention it?' Despite being impressionable, I knew that my discovery was my own, even if all the adults already knew it. And truly, a young child making the connection between language patterns and etymology without help is worth respect.

Consider also, that the human race has a similar genesis and similar experience to draw upon. We are born, we live, we learn, we work to survive, we have families, we die. We have the same earth, and the same general resources. Despite local variations of climate and geography, the need for earth and water also tie us together. Ultimately, we are all pulling from the same bag of resources to create our expectations and interactions in life. While the more variables mathematically increases the possible combinations exponentially, there will always be themes of commonality, especially the more people there are to make the combinations. Rather than finding these patterns as distasteful and boring, consider the beauty implied therein.

A human does not need to invent something no one else has ever seen to be valid as a human. They are already their own unique person. No one else has experienced my combination of personality, history, thoughts, tests and trials, hopes and dreams, failures and successes. Others have experienced abuse. Others have experienced serious illness and death of a parent. Others are riding the disorienting roller coaster called dysautonomia. There is even a pattern of dysautonomia patients with traumatic childhoods and trigger illnesses. But rather than invalidating my experience, or those of another, having a community of shared experience brings strength, comfort, support, and courage. If it works this way with the hard things in life, why can we not see the creative and productive in the same way?

A sibling has a particular gift but feels threatened when another expresses interest in the same activity? Or the second sibling doesn't dare express their interest for fear of being a 'copycat' or trying to steal the show or crowding the first sibling's scene? If we learn to value each person for who they are rather than seeing everything as a competition for fleeting value, I suspect life would be much more fulfilling for everyone.

I first heard the term 'also-ran' in the lyrics to Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. His brothers resented the legitimate heir because they feared who he was meant they didn't count. Not having been there, I can't say much to the family dynamics involved, but the jealousy was real and it nearly led to Joseph's murder. The end of the story has Joseph testing his unknowing brothers to see if they still hold the biases that broke the family in the first place.

Sibling rivalry is only one manifestation of the obsession with all things original. The biases evident in the story are indicative of the larger picture, all the same. I have known those who are what I call 'purists' of the classics, such that only the six-hour Pride and Prejudice has any real value, for example. I have always loved adaptations of classic stories for how they allow another perspective on a previously one-dimensional picture. The more perspectives, the richer the possible understanding. In stating this, it occurs that adaptations are a combination of first-time/beginning original and fresh-take/inventive original. Not all adaptations are equally appealing, but to blame any failure on the fact that it was an adaptation, on the fact that it is patterned after something already done, is superbly short-sighted.

Likewise, not all similarities in stories are derivative. My creative writing short story about an underground culture could not have been inspired by The City of Ember for the simple reason that I'd never heard of it before the class workshop critique on my already written short story. I can't say it was the best story written, but to dismiss it because it was like another was to miss what value it had on its own merits. (Dr. P said it was a novel in disguise, so even if I think the point I was trying to express has value, my dislike for writing means it won't get attention for a good long time, if ever...)

I am not arguing this post because of my personal examples, but I am using them to demonstrate my meaning simply by virtue of them being the most ready examples for me to work with. I am somewhat creative by nature in that I don't see a purpose in recreating the wheel when others already do so and far better than I could. I get the inclination to find a new way to do things, to organize things, to present things. The creative urge is a means of introducing originality to our world. I think we just get hung up on thinking that is how things must be judged rather than being an indication of seeking growth. The very notion of the 'shame' of 'also-rans' is evidence of this flawed judgment. If we can encourage and praise growth in every individual, however repetitive it may seem, I think it will naturally lead to a creative world. And if we focus on our own growth instead of comparing and judging, I think we will find ourselves less bored, burned-out, and biased against the patterns natural to life.

De-stressing and Refreshing the Hope Banks

Between health difficulties and the stress of trying to imagine how to actually manage the upcoming move when I'm doing good to concentrate enough to make a to-do list, let alone remember to work on it, I've been battling discouragement off and on over the past month. General Conference last weekend did much to lift my spirits, but facing a doctor that has apparently never thought to look for more information about my particular health problems kind of put another damper on them. Since my health problems are rather sensitive to stress, when it builds up to these levels, I have to focus on getting them to drop quickly or I'll be facing worse 'crashes' as time goes on. (It has to do with the system that manages autonomic functioning in the body, including the adrenal glands - the more stress, the more likely it'll trigger another function to falter.) It is, therefore, not surprising that upon waking this morning, my attention has been on how to refocus and refresh the 'hope' banks.

While I may not be able to do all that I used to do before the H1N1 vaccine skewed my body's regulator, even accomplishing a few small things is enough to help dispel the hated 'trapped/stuck' feeling. Remembering that my life is my own and I can act and make choices and have a say in where and how it goes is crucial to a sense of well-being. The hardest times of the past were when there was no sense of freedom, no autonomy from the demands of others and no sustaining connections to other humans who actually cared and wanted to be involved in my life because of me rather than because of how it would reflect upon themselves. Being able to say, 'No, I don't like that; I don't want that,' or, 'Yes! I am doing this even if it seems weird to someone else,' allows a person to retain and remember their identity and individuality. It is quite good for the health. Knowing people who sincerely care and love you and who are willing to talk even if it's just for random talking has also proven very helpful in lifting my spirits.

If you've paid any attention to my previous blog-posts, you know that stories are my passion! If I've had a PTSD trigger (yes, I'm admitting it here as one of my trials in life - read the Moriarty post and you'll have a good insight on how some of that came about...) talking about the story(ies) I am or just have consumed is the quickest distraction to help me out of the bad place. Right now, I'm debating between a Danny Kaye movie (laughter is the best medicine, after all) and watching The Avengers again. (It's been a month or so since last time...)

Meditation may or may not prove helpful for me. If the stress is too high, I'll just get caught in a down-spiral. Boyd K. Packer said that sometimes we need to pray and then get up and go about our lives - that extended time 'on our knees', as it were, won't always grant us the answers we are asking for. Rather, pray in faith and go forth with faith and the answer will come in God's own time and God's own way. So long as we are willing to accept the answer that comes, we will recognize that He does answer. This ties in with a pattern I noticed in the scriptures some years back.

Throughout the Book of Mormon and Doctrine and Covenants, I kept noticing reference to 'prayers of faith'. Truly, praying, asking for help from anyone, really, requires a confidence that help is even available. But then I also began noticing the phrase 'faith in their prayers'. It shows up most distinctly in D&C 10: 47-52 where the Lord speaks of the prayers of those who wrote the Book of Mormon and their confidence that their efforts would have value for the future generations. There was nothing to indicate the records would even survive after they died, yet they acted in faith, kept the records, and prayed in faith, believing their prayers meant something to God. In D&C 10, He shows us that even that secondary faith has value.

I suppose that could translate into my efforts to finish my education after I got sick. Granted, I've been of the idea that the doctors will someday get a clue and I'll be able to function at least as well as I did before getting sick (there are plenty of clues I've had the dysautonomia since being a child but that my body was able to mostly compensate in functioning). As time has passed, however, one could wonder why it was so important for me to fight the sickness and finish my last semester at the university if I'm often left in such a low level of functioning that it doesn't appear to hold much economic value. Is not paying and striving for an education an 'act of faith'? Now, I'm the stubborn type who is trying to find ways to move on even when it's so *growling* difficult to move, so I look at the education as a victory in itself. But you see how the apparent lack of point, value, effect of the endeavor could be a frustration? I readily admit that another recent topic on my mind is sorting itself out in these terms as I type. (I don't actually share everything in my blog - deal with it. ;) )

Getting a fresh perspective, or as we Mormons like to say, 'an eternal perspective', on things often helps whatever feelings of lack or failure or disappointment fade to the background. Often, things take far longer to completely resolve, but when they aren't overwhelming out attention, we are far better able to handle life as it comes. Since I spent so many years feeling trapped, it is logical that I respond the quickest to the things that helped me escape those situations - action and stories. I am a person of faith and it has served me just as well, so I must remember to bring my perspective into balance with the eternal perspective by using the patterns taught by the scriptures and by church leaders. Another might find their relief in running. Or painting. Or yoga. Or cooking. Or working on a car. Or journaling. The point is simply that if we pay attention to our personal patterns of stress and relief, we can actively pursue restored balance. And I much prefer living with a hopeful outlook on life. :)