December 25, 2012

The Year of the Christmas Miracle

     There are only two ways to live your life. 
      One is as though nothing is a miracle.
     The other is as though everything is a miracle.
     --Albert Einstein

At dinner last night, my brother and I got talking about a very special Baxter Christmas: The Year of the Christmas Miracle.

It was just after the turn of the century (doesn't that sound quaint?), when Malcom in the Middle was on TV and George W. Bush was in the White House. Now kids, at this time, USB jump drives were rather new and much more expensive than they are now, and my brother’s Christmas list included just such a drive. He knew he’d be getting it; he helped our mom pick it out so it would be just the one he was hoping for.


At some point before Christmas, likely during finals week, John needed the jump drive for a school project, so he asked if he could get his Christmas gift early and take it to his apartment. Mom said he could, as long as he'd bring it back so she could wrap it up and put it under the tree for him to open Christmas morning.  It was, after all, his main present that year (remember, jump drives were relatively pricey at the time). 


Then it was Christmase Eve. Mom and I were wrapping presents, and when we came to the empty packaging, she called John to remind him to bring it over with him when he came that evening. But he arrived empty handed. The jump drive was lost. He was sure it was in his room somewhere, probably on the bed, tucked safely among the covers. He said he looked and looked, but he just couldn’t see the pesky little device.


“Oh well,” we thought. “At least we know where it is, even if it’s not under the tree.” We decided to wrap up the empty jump drive packaging anyway, just to add a little more bulk under the Christmas tree and to give John a gift to open -- even if it was empty. We laughed a bit together about wrapping an empty package, and continued on with our Christmas Eve family traditions.


The next morning, we handed my brother his present, and he laughed again that we’d wrapped up the empty packaging. And then he opened it. And guess what was inside? 

The missing jump drive! No one knew how it got there.* 


It was a Christmas Miracle!! 

(*Actually, turns out my brother found it that night after we’d all gone to bed. He had carefully unwrapped the gift, inserted the drive into its packaging, and replaced the wrapping paper. A really fun Christmas surprise, to be sure. And I still like to think of it as our own little Christmas Miracle.)

September 28, 2012

Note to Self


In the end, the number of prayers we say may contribute to our happines, but the number of prayers we answer may be of even greater importance.
—President Dieter F. Ucthdorf
A friend and I have talked a lot recently about the frustration of having to relearn life lessons. Case in point, I keep relearning that I should not, under any circumstances, go grocery shopping before I eat dinner. I know this, yet I keep doing it. This is how I came to be the owner of a dozen doughnuts I didn’t really want earlier this week.

On a more serious note, there are those eternally significant and foundational lessons I learn, lessons that, at the time, I’m absolutely sure I’ll never forget. Yet I find myself relearning them all the time. I’ve recently been reminded of one, so I decided to write it down. Note to self: Connecting with and helping to lift other people makes you happy.

It’s true. I’ve known myself for a long time now, and some time ago I realized that when I’m engaged with others, helping lift their burdens or just enjoying being connected, I’m much happier. It’s when I start focusing on myself—obsessing about what I want but don’t have, or situations I can’t control that I wish were different—I’m not happy. I’ve only recently given this a name, and I’m calling it “living too much inside my own head.” I’ve learned time and again that it’s not good for me. Yet, I still do it.

The trouble is, it’s really a vicious cycle. When I’m living in my head, I don’t feel like myself. And when I don’t feel like myself, it’s really, really hard to reach out to lift others. And so, I lose all connection to that thing that I know makes me happy, which in turn lets me live more and more inside my head.

I’ve been inside my head to varying degrees for a little while now. Don’t get me wrong, I think there is value in self-reflection and pondering and what a good friend of mine calls “listening to the quiet.” This is different, and it’s not necessarily a good place for me. Unfortunately, I have to keep relearning this fact.

Fortunately, God is good. And now that I’ve remembered the lesson that I’ve learned so often, he has allowed me some moments of joy by putting me in a position to be there for someone else in the last week or so. People who needed a hug or a listening ear or help out of a jam. In the "economy of heaven,” a few of the people in my path get a little of what they might need, and I get a lot of what I need at the same time. 

It all reminds of me of President Uchtdorf’s words at the October 2008 General Relief Society Meeting. He said: 
In the end, the number of prayers we say may contribute to our happiness, but the number of prayers we answer may be of even greater importance. Let us open our eyes and see the heavy hearts, notice the loneliness and despair; let us feel the silent prayers of others around us, and let us be an instrument in the hands of the Lord to answer those prayers. 
For me, I know I’m happiest when I remember to follow this advice. So, my friends, if you ever need anything—a hug, a ride, a listening ear, a cupcake—please let me help. You’ll be doing me a favor.

July 3, 2012

Batman to the Rescue

I was rescued by a bona fide super hero yesterday.
And he looked a little like this guy.














At least, to me he did. 
True story.
It happened this way:

It was a warm and quiet Monday afternoon. I had taken my lunch to a shaded park where I could enjoy the greenery and also listen to NPR's Talk of the Nation on my car radio as I ate. They were discussing the war and policies in Afghanistan. Really interesting. But I digress.

Suddenly, the radio quit and the air was filled with an eerie silence. I knew instantly that trouble was brewing. A turn of the key in the ignition confirmed the worst. My battery had died. I was alone, and stuck.

But never fear! I quickly sent out the bat signal (via a text message), and shortly my very own Batman came to my rescue. His Batmobile was in the shop, apparently, but the Toyota RAV4 he brought instead was perfectly suited to the crisis at hand. He connected the cables, and we were well on our way to jump-starting my car.

Except it wouldn't jump. Cables were connected, his engine was running, but my engine wouldn't turn over. The situation was getting dire, to be sure. So what did this super hero do?  He strong-armed my battery away from the engine and rushed it off to the local battery triage center (also know as O'Reilly Auto Parts) for testing.


Sadly, the battery was too far gone. The technician reported there was nothing he could do, and the battery's monitor -- just at that moment -- flatlined. Seriously. It was quite the melodramatic death scene. That's how I envision it, at least.

Batman, never being one to show emotion, quickly pulled himself together after the tragedy and did what needed to be done. In short order, I had a brand new battery all hooked up to my engine, and a full complement of coolant to boot. I turned the key, and the engine revved. Joyful noise! Yay Batman!

https://sphotos.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/206333_4347141596_936_n.jpgNow, I know I shouldn't reveal Batman's real identity... but I'm sure he won't mind if I only tell YOU. Honestly, what harm could there be? What could happen? Just, you know, keep it to yourself, huh? In real life, he plays the role of a sarcastic and not-so-mild-mannered SEO dude, and he looks a little something like this guy here.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, Devin!! (er, um, I mean Batman...)

June 8, 2012

Talk Time

When a friend calls to me from the road... 
I go up to the stone wall

For a friendly visit.

—Robert Frost
A quick "I made it" from a traveling friend.
An encouraging text.
A catch-up with my mom.
A song from my 3-year-old niece. (Taio Cruz's "Dynamite," of all things!)
Laughing with my sister.
Another text.
Phone tag.
An brief but overdue visit.
Another text.

These are the interactions I had with my phone today. As I hung up after my last conversation, It occurred to me how much I love the little device in my hands. "It's like my best friend," I thought. But that's not quite right. It connects me to my best friends, many of whom are separated from me by distance. Other are separated by time and the busy-ness of day-to-day life. No matter what separates us, there's my little phone, keeping us connected.

It's not fancy (or "smart"), my phone. I've had to tell many a disappointed toddler that there are no games to play. It only makes calls and sends texts. That's it. And that's plenty, because that's the beauty and the miracle of the 4-ounce bit of technology. Small as it is, it contains the whole of what's important in my world -- a connection to the people I love.

May 5, 2012

Let It Be

There is no remedy for the sorrow of losing someone we love, nor should there be.
Sorrow is not an illness or an affliction. It is the only response possible to the death
of a loved one, and an affirmation of just how much we value life itself,
for all its wonder and beauty and satisfaction.

—Nina Sankovitch
Last night I spent the evening laughing and crying and hugging with some dear friends who had lost a dear friend. She was in her early 40s and perfectly healthy. She was one of the most kind, loving, friendly and inclusive people I've known.

Her passing was completely unexpected. When I came home from work, I saw mentions of her sudden loss on Facebook that were just too confusing to process. I was glad to have spent the evening with people who loved her. One of the best words I heard someone utter last night was “baffling.” It is—truly baffling.

As I left her home and the gathering of friends, a line from one of my favorite Beatles songs was running through my head: “There will be an answer. Let it be.”

And when the night is cloudy
There is still a light that shines on me.
Shine on till tomorrow, let it be.
I wake up to the sound of music,
Mother Mary comes to me,
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be . . .
There will be an answer, let it be.

I love the duality of the phrase “let it be.” These words of wisdom act as both a prayer and an answer, thanks to that beautifully ambiguous “it.” Let it be. It refers to both the current situation and a future desire at the same time. It is both a pleading for something to happen and the answer to let God do his work, both the desire for a change and the calming answer that all will be well. I can envision a loving Heavenly Father whispering, “Hush, I know what I’m doing. Let it be.” Even as we pray to him for peace and for comfort and for light, even as we pray for him to let it be—whatever the particular “it” is that we’re praying for.

As I think about the wonderful woman we lost yesterday, my heart breaks for her family and the many, many friends who are deeply hurting, who are feeling times of darkness and cloudy nights and baffled confusion at the loss of such a good and dear friend. We wonder how and why this could happen and how the void she left will be filled. I wish I knew. But I know this: There will be an answer. Let it be.

April 23, 2012

Lyrically Speaking

Music is the shorthand of emotion.
—Leo Tolstoy
I drove to Las Vegas and back this weekend. Twelve hours in the car by myself -- just me, my iPod, a few podcasts, and 4GB of my very favorite songs. This makes more happy than it probably should, and honestly, spending this time with the music I love is half the reason I like to take roadtrips in the first place.

I'm mostly a lyric person. The musical accompaniment often feels secondary to me, and I have to focus to hear it. Chalk it up to my affinity for words. A good lyric can really turn my head. Often when I hear a lyric that makes me think, or one that just makes me smile, my need to share can be satisfied by a simple Facebook update. But this weekend there were just too many. I've had to resort to a blog post!

So here is a collection of the top 25  lines I absolutely loved hearing this weekend. Some of them make me smile, some of them make me think, and some of them just plain sound good. See how many you recognize!
  • You give me courage I didn't know I had. ... I can't go with you and stay where I am.
  • He looks around and around, he sees angels in the architecture, spinning in infinity, he says "amen" and "hallelujah." (For some reason that I don't know how to articulate quite, this whole line just feels good in my mouth when I sing it. Maybe it's all the great repetitive vowel sounds.)
  • So I will share this room with you, and you can have this heart to break.
  • It's the chance of a lifetime in a lifetime of chance, and it's high time you joined in the dance.
    (I know, it's a horse race, but it feels like the line applies to human life in general, too.)
  • I just have to hear those sweet words spoken like a melody.
  • Someone I am is waiting for courage. The one I want, the one I will become, will catch me. (Makes me think of change and failure, growth and becoming.)
  • I can't give you what you think you gave me. (That "what you think" is so key and so fascinating)
  • Pack up the babies and grab the old ladies 'cause everyone goes, everyone knows about Brother Love's show. (What a hilarious image!)
  • I've been searching for something taken out of my soul; something I'd never lose, something somebody stole.
  • When you spot a John waiting out in the rain, chances are he's insane as only a John can be for a Jane. (Oh, what fun rhyming!)
  • I've seen your flag on the marble arch, and love is not a victory march. It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.
  • My head is saying, "Fool, forget him." My heart is saying, "Don't let go."
  • Agony! Oh, the torture they teach. What's as intriguing or half so fatiguing as what's out of reach? (Related line: Dwarfs are very upsetting...)
  • For, heaven rest us, I'm not asbestos. (What a great rhyme!)
  • She asks me how the cat's been. I say, "Moses, he's just fine."(The cat's name is Moses?! Awesome!)
  • Cling to the Father and His Holy Name, and don't go riding on that long, black train.
  • Now every day I wake again in a house that might have been a home.
  • LA's fine but it ain't home; New York's home but it ain't mine no more. (Interesting thoughts on home and place and belonging.)
  • I can only give you love that lasts forever, and the promise to me near each time you call. And the only heart I own, for you and you alone, that's all. That's all. (Here I could put the whole song. LOVE it!)
  • You are the sun, I am the moon; you are the words, I am the tune. Play me.
  • Larry the Cucumber presents, in a sequential image, stereophonic, multi-media event, The Song of the Cebu! (teehehe)
  • Wasn't the spring, then spring became the summer. Who'd have believed you'd come along?
  • The smile on your face lets me know that you need me. There's a truth in your eyes saying you'll never leave me. The touch of your hand says you'll catch me if ever I fall. (A beautiful sentiment, attached to a specific treasured memory for me.)
  • I shouldn't be wearin' white and you can't afford no ring...(ha!)
  • You're so nice. You're not good, you're not bad. You're just nice.

Yeah... music makes me happy. Thanks for indulging my need to share it!

April 17, 2012

The Hunger Games Trilogy – fin

To read without reflecting is like eating without digesting.
—Edmund Burke
 
First, an obligatory spoiler alert: Do not read this if you have yet to read all three Hunger Games books. I plan to talk frankly about the books and will not veil any references to specific events, even the happenings at the very end. Consider yourself warned.

And a quick shout out to my coworkers (you know who you are) who endured my vocal wrestling with the story as I read it. They heard a lot about my frustrations and reactions as the story unfolded for me. Once I’d finished the books and said my piece, one commented, “You think a lot more about what you read than I do.” And another asked if all this analysis was something I choose to do, or is it just programmed into me. Honestly, it’s just programmed in – the byproduct of years of studying literature. But it’s also really, really fun for me, so at some level I’m sure I'm choosing it as well.

And finally, this gets long. I know it. Bear with me; you'll be glad you did. Honestly, my favorite ideas are at the end. Ok, here we go...

You may remember I had some frustrations at the end of the first book. Most of those were resolved by the end of the series. I still think it was a horrible way to end a book, and I still dislike the book as a unit. I am, however, satisfied with the series as a whole, but reservedly so. Truthfully, I wouldn’t read it again, I’m not eager to see the movie, and I’ll likely only recommended the series to a select few.

That said, I applaud Suzanne Collins for creating a world that feels somewhat foreign and yet mimics our own so exactly. The Capitol amazingly and precisely mirrors some aspects of our own consumer culture. The fact that everywhere I look I’m reminded of the Capitol speaks to how well she grafted our culture to the Capitol’s. 

For instance, I recently read a newspaper article about high-end hotels, where image and first impression are everything and the guest experience is managed and designed from the moment they step in the door. Image. Pleasure. Perception of luxury. The Capitol. Caesar Flickerman’s pre-game interviews ring as true as any late night talk show lineup. Staged costumes, coached participants, and easy banter. Is it NBC, or is it the Capitol? And notice how many commercials are all about appearance and fashion, or luxury and ease, or status and position. Totally the Capitol. 

I also applaud her for creating a story that drew me in and made me feel. Granted, a lot of those feelings were not necessarily positive. I felt a lot of frustration and shock and anger and sadness and more frustration. But I did cry with Katniss when she waited for word of Peeta’s rescue, and I was so bothered by her at times, I may have actually chastised her aloud once or twice. So, kudos to Suzanne Collins for writing a story that hooked me.

And kudos (maybe?) for teaching a new generation of cynics to realize that anything can be staged; that just because it’s on TV, even on the news, doesn’t mean it’s 100% accurate; that clever editing and coerced performances can create the illusion of an organized rebellion until it becomes a reality. And here’s hoping some really good parents and teachers can help turn that cynicism into stellar critical thinking skills.

So, the series has its good points, but I think there may be a fundamental problem with a book whose main character is so – bothersome.

Katniss. Oh she bugged me. A lot. A few examples: In the second games, the group is gifted 24 pieces of bread from District 3 several times in a row. Katniss knows that gifts in the arena are messages, and she doesn’t even suspect this repeated gift might be significant? She’s smarter than that, or at least I thought she was. And remember how at one point she is ready and eager to stay with Gale and be part of a rebellion in District 12? Then, when she discovers there already is a rebellion, and she’s going to be part of it – a big part of it, even – she’s so angry at the rebels who brought her into it that she actually refuses to help. Not cool. And frankly, these are just a few instances in a long line of inconsistent behavior. 

But I think the biggest bother was her… I don’t even know what to call it. Delusions of grandeur? Superiority complex? Maybe even some sort of survivor guilt? Regardless, I got very tired of her lamenting all the death she thinks she has caused: “I did this.” “They’re dead because of me.”  Over and over and over again. No. You did not. Someone, without your knowledge, took actions, unrelated to your wishes, which resulted in deaths that you did not condone. You are not remotely responsible for their actions, and you are much less powerful than you believe. Stop the “woe is me” and assign responsibility where it really belongs.

Which leads right into another gripe. Katniss, the purported heroine of this story, really doesn't do a lot. She is the face of the rebellion, but not much else. She is as manipulated by District 13 and the Gamemakers as anyone. And while in the end she finally plays a role that she herself chooses (in shooting Coin), that is just about the only time. 

I was also somewhat bothered by the heavy-handed lines that are so clearly the point Collins wants readers to take away from the story. When Katniss asks Plutarch if he’s preparing for another war, he replies, “Not now. Now we’re in that sweet period where everyone agrees that our recent horrors should never be repeated. But collective thinking is usually short-lived. We’re fickle, stupid beings with poor memories and a great gift for self-destruction.”  The trouble is, this point (about fickle, stupid beings) isn’t necessarily something she develops naturally or that she lets come to light gradually. In fact, the sentences are so out of character for Plutarch, and indeed so different in tone from the rest of the series, that she might as well have outlined them in neon green and drawn pink arrows pointing to them. As it is, they land with an audible Thunk! This is my point. And now you know. It’s a good point, but I felt knocked over the head with it. (It’s YA lit. I know. But still…)

And I do still have questions. The biggest question, of course, is who is responsible for bombing the Capitol children outside Snow’s mansion – Snow or Coin? The Capitol or the rebels? The real answer, though, is that it doesn’t matter. They are two sides of the same coin, really. And this, I believe, is why Katniss kills Coin instead of Snow when she has the chance. You might argue (rightly) that it’s because she suspects Coin to be behind the blasts that end up killing Prim. But I think there’s more to it than simple revenge for her sister. This suspicion, coupled with Coin’s suggestion of another Hunger Games, show Katniss that Coin and Snow are the same. Fundamentally, nothing would change because both do whatever it takes to get what they want. Snow and Coin are fighting for power, while the districts are fighting for freedom. These are not remotely the same.

So, while it might not matter in the end which despot dropped the final bombs, there are some questions that really need to be answered. And they're not.
  • Did Madge know the Mockingjay was a symbol of the rebels when she insisted Katniss wear it in the games? And why does Katniss never ask her about it later?
  • Who is Cinna? How is he involved in the rebellion? Was it just dumb luck that he was Katniss’s stylist?
  • Just how far back does this rebellion go? How long has Katniss been groomed to be the face of it? Even to the first games? Or before?
  • Why does Boggs give her command? And why does she proceed, believing she’s following his last directives (because she trusts him), but conveniently ignores the one to kill Peeta?
  • And if District 13 bombed the Capitol kids, did they also bomb the hospital in 8, the event that got Katniss enraged enough to perform well on camera for the rebellion?
  • And if District 13 bombed the hospital in District 8, who really destroyed District 12?
There are more questions, ones I think she intentionally left unanswered; truthfully, they'd make a for a good prequel. But I still wonder:
  • What happened when Haymitch won the games? What happened to his family? He was once dating Katniss’ mother. What happened there?
  • Was the mine blast that killed her father really an accident?
  • Why did her mother so strictly forbid the hanging tree song?
  • Why did District 13 rebel in the first place? What happened there in the intervening 75 years?
And finally, the most gnawing question I have, the most inexplicably unanswered, is this: Why in the world are the games even called the Hunger Games? As far as I can see, there’s no explanation for the origin of the name. And since it’s the event that the whole story hangs on, so significant that it’s even the name of the series, it would seem to warrant an explanation as to how the name came to be. That, to me, is a significant oversight.

And now I’m done.
Well, I’m done until you tell me what you thought of the books. Then I’ll have more to say, I’m sure!

April 5, 2012

The Hunger Games—Part One

To read without reflecting is like eating without digesting.
—Edmund Burke
Remember when I picked on The Sound of Music? Good times. This is another post like that one—except that was all in fun. This time I'm honestly frustrated and have a bone or three to pick with Suzanne Collins.
Late last night I finished the first book of The Hunger Games trilogy, and frankly I was bothered—though not in the ways you might think.  After ranting about it this morning to three separate coworkers, I was still riled up about it—maybe writing it all out will help exorcize my concerns.
#1 – The games. I don't buy the premise for the Hunger Games.  As I understand it, the requirement to send a tribute is a punishment for the rebellion that ended in the destruction of District 13, right?  Something about this doesn't quite make sense to me. I'm a big-picture person, and this smacks of "We do it because it's been done for 74 years. That's why. End of story."  Granted, this may really be all that Katniss understands about it, and since the whole story is narrated from inside her head, I can accept it if that's all SHE knows about the Hunger Games. Is it too much to hope that she (and thus I) will learn more satisfactory answers to how the games came about and the purpose behind them? If not, I will be very disappointed.
I do appreciate that the games are like Survivor on steroids. So maybe Ms. Collins and I at least agree on the ridiculousness of reality TV….
#2 – The ending. Granted, my reaction is likely colored by the fact that I finished the book at 1 a.m. I was beyond ready to go to bed, but I was so close to the end, I kept reading.  Except, the end of the book was no ending at all. They're about to step off the train, and … scene. It feels like a fine chapter ending, but not the end of a whole volume. For this I stayed up way too late? Yeah, I was bugged.
I was expecting at least a little bit of closure. As my coworker put it, "A book should end with a door closing, not a door opening." Amen. Close the door. Even if all the windows are still open (fodder for the next installment, of course), for heaven's sake, at least close the door!
Plus, my dystopian sci-fi spidey sense kept tingling—there are so many things in the book that raise questions or that are obviously significant.  But not one of those questions was answered and not one of my "this is significant" thoughts bore fruit. I didn't need her to tie everything up in a nice little bow; I'm anti-bow-tying anyway. Plus, it is only the first installment of a trilogy – I get that. There's more to come. But I would have liked something in this first book, some element fully explained, some understanding of how pieces fit together. Leave threads for the next book, for sure. That's fine. But now, at the end of book one, I can't necessarily trust that I'll ever get the answers I want because I haven't gotten any thus far.
#3 – Sentence Fragments. There were a lot. You may have gathered from my writing that I am a fan of sentence fragments—and I am. But this was excessive. I understand, we're in Kat's head, and people don't think in complete sentences. But people don't think with punctuation either. Punctuation exists to make sense of words and ideas expressed on paper. Not everything requires a full stop. Granted, I probably didn't notice 80% of the sentence fragments. Most of them worked just fine in context. However, the 20% that called attention to themselves were really, well, bothersome.
To be fair, I audibly gasped when Rue is stabbed with the spear. I genuinely like Peeta. And I did stay up way too late, more than once, reading it. It is entertaining and enjoyable, and I plan to read the other books. I was just bothered, at one in the morning, with the ending of the first installment.

March 11, 2012

Grimm, or Why I Want My Monsters to Be Human


What is important is to look upon everyone with a deep
sense of honor, because your own heart and mind
are influenced by the way you look at others.

—Swami Muktananda
 Grimm. Have you seen it?

It's a new(ish) show on NBC
—sort of Law and Order meets Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Here's the gist if you haven't seen the show: A young homicide detective is visited by his dying aunt, who reveals to him that he is the last of a long line of Grimms whose family legacy it is to keep the world safe from the "monsters" who live among us, human-looking folks who have the souls—or at least the attributes—of spiders or bears or bees or badgers or wolves or other non-human animals and creatures. She leaves him a trailer full of old, hand-written volumes on these seemingly mythical creatures, and also with the ability to see beyond their human form to what they really are.  As it turns out, he sees these folks A LOT in his work as a homicide detective—and they're not usually the victim. These non-human folk can do some pretty nasty things. There's more to it, but that's enough for my purposes here.

I have a love/hate relationship with the show. Well, more of a like/get-creeped-out relationship with it.
  And sometimes the show just downright bothers my spirit. It doesn't always affect me that way, and I really do like the idea of a whole world going on around us that we are unaware of. So it's taken me a long time to figure out just why it is that when it bothers me, it bothers me SOO very much.

And I think it boils down to this: I like my monsters to be human.

Let me explain. I am bothered by the notion that we can blame wrongdoing on the fact that the people guilty of the wrongdoing are somehow inherently “other” than human, and therefore fundamentally different from the rest of the population
—namely, us.  If the person who is mass murder, or an adulterer, or a petty thief, or a drug addict, or a jaywalker, or a [insert whatever behavior you deem questionable]—if these people are somehow less than (or other than) ourselves, we have no reason to feel compassion, to try to understand them, to want to help if possible, and to see their humanity beyond their misguided choices or unfortunate circumstances. Plus, we can sit smugly by, knowing they are not like us, and knowing we are not like them. That way, we don’t even have to acknowledge or deal with the less-than-perfect traits that come with our own humanity.

No doubt there is evil in the world. And no doubt people do some horrible things to one another. But consider this: Ted Bundy is a human being. Susan Smith is someone's daughter. Josh Powell is a child of God.

No situation is ever exactly the way it appears on the surface. Ever. Don’t get me wrong, these people have a lot to answer for.
 I believe in justice, and I believe in mercy. And I am ever-so-glad that with my imperfect understanding, I don't have to make decisions about how much of each should be doled out in any given situation.

What I do know is this: We do ourselves and our society a disservice when we decide to "other-ize" the monsters among us, or when we "monster-ize" the others among us.
  I think that’s the main reason Grimm bothers me so much from time to time. It’s the principle of the thing. Pop culture entities like this contribute to a society where we feel free to demonize our fellow human beings. That may not seem like such a big deal when we're talking about clearly evil deeds, but what happens when the freedom to demonize the "other" permeates society?  Consider the prevalence of hate crimes against homosexuals or ethnic groups, of bullying at school and online, and even of spiteful rhetoric aimed at the opposing political party.

It often seems that if someone believes differently or acts differently or behaves differently, we feel free to simply dismiss them (at best) and hate them (at worst).
 Perhaps we wouldn't even recognize it as hate. Not really. But it's a lack of compassion—we don't understand them because they are not like us; therefore, they are not understandable and we don’t have to put any effort toward developing compassion and understanding for them. They are not “us.” They are “them.” They are the "other." 

I happen to think the world could do with fewer divisions of "them" and "us." I much prefer a world of "we."

March 5, 2012

Out of the Mouths of Babes

Indeed, the only truly serious questions are ones that even a child
can formulate. Only the most naive of questions are truly serious.
They are the questions with no answers.

― Milan Kundera

My 3-year-old niece (That's her down below. Cute, huh?) has hit that questioning stage. You know the one—she's trying to figure out how her world works, so everything elicits a question. Everything. I spent a day with her recently, and I think my favorite of all her questions was this one: "Aunt Susan, how did you get to be Susan?" Now really, how do you answer that one!?

At Grandma's Last Summer

Most of her questions felt random. But a few followed a definite theme. I must have been in a good mood, because this particular theme made me smile. Allow me to paraphrase three separate conversations I had with her in the space of less than 24 hours:

Her: Aunt Susan, do you have kids?
Me: No. I don't.
 *****
Her: Aunt Susan, where are your kids?
Me: They're still with Heavenly Father.
Her: But why?
Me: Well, I don't have a daddy for them yet, so they have to wait.
 *****
Her [again]: Aunt Susan, do you have kids?
Me [again]: Nope. I don't.
Her: Why not?
Me: I don't know. It just hasn't worked out that way.
Her [with genuine concern and some confusion]: But.... you're supposed to be having kids.

Oh, I know sweetheart, I know....

February 15, 2012

i carry your heart with me

A good love poem, though it may be addressed to one
person, is always meant to be overheard by other people. . . .
These are private words addressed to you in public.

—T. S. Eliot
I've had love on the brain for the last few days. It's hard not to, this time of year.  For the most part, it's been rather enjoyable to wallow in the trappings of "love day" – especially since I love a good love song.  And even though I don't have a Valentine, in the strictest sense of the word, there are a lot of people in the world whom I love. Dearly. And I liked pondering and acknowledging some of those treasured relationships.
I was looking online for some good love poetry this week, and I found a new favorite. It's by e.e. cummings, which is not at all surprising. I love that man's words. The beginning almost feels like too much, to the point that I wonder if he is being just a bit facetious. It kind of makes me want to say, "Really, e? (Can I call you e?)  Don't you think that's just a bit too gushy?" But apparently that's the way he wants it. He never listens to me… 
Anyway, here it is. Commentary to follow.

[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]
e.e. cummings
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Once you get beyond the creepy literal image of that first line, the metaphor is beautiful.  All that he is stems from his heart, and inside that heart is his love's heart. So really, the beloved's heart is the root of all that he is and all that he does. 
And look at that "i fear" just hanging out alone in the middle of the first stanza. Does it belong with the thought above, or the thought below, or both? We get the sense that love can be both a scary, all-engrossing, self-consuming feeling and a very secure feeling at the same time. What a feat of poetic loveliness!
Then there's the final stanza: "here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life."  I adore the repetition of the "thing inside a thing" – the root in the root, the heart in the heart.  And the secret of that growing tree, of the root that supports it and the bud that grows season after season and the sky that it reaches toward – the secret of his life's beginning, middle and end – is that he carries his love's heart inside his own.  Protecting it and holding it and making it a motivating force. It is, in fact, what is "keeping the stars apart," keeping his world from falling in on itself and being destroyed. It's love.
I feel like I'm not done, like there's more to say here – a personal connection to this piece. Something about wanting to be whatever a moon has always meant to someone, or hoping to find someone who is, for me, whatever a sun will always sing. But today is not the day for me to say it. So I'll simply say:
Thank you, e. (I've decided to call him e.) That was just beautiful.


PS- Google "TS Eliot A Dedication to My Wife." You'll like it. Part of the quote above this post is from that poem.