4:30am

Funny how simple and easy the words seemed to appear in my head as I lay staring sleeplessly into the blackness of my room.  I've been awake since 3:45am.  Not quite sure why I awoke with no return into the blissful state of sleep- or at least not sure I am willing to confess or face the potential reasons.  The following is not the primary source of awakefulness but at least a part I am willing to look at.  But now faced with delivering some of my thoughts into a concrete form on the computer, the flow becomes a dam and I wonder just what it was I thought was so important to write.  Honestly- it isn't about the importance of the words- it is about an outlet for my thoughts and a hope for an hour more of sleep when I'm done by freeing a few of them.  Not as if anyone else but I has paid attention ,but my last post was in Feb.  In case you're not interested in doing the math that is -give or take -4 months.  Long time for me.  As I found myself pondering the need to record my trip to Turkey and the disconnect between that thought and any action about it I realized perhaps there is something more I am not willing to face.  I simply have not had the heart to return to my computer and write.  Yes, I am busy- but I am always busy.  One of the questions I faced this early morning was a why- why don't I have the heart to write.  And it isn't just my blog I'm not writing in- I'm not writing in any of my obscure notebooks I have hidden away.  I simply stopped writing. 
(One of the questions I ask myself as I write on a blog- free to the entire world to hear some thoughts in my head is- just how vulnerable and open do I want to be?  What is appropriate?  Will any words I write come back to harm myself or others with unforseeable consequences?  Argueable the debate on either side- I still worry- as I am currently about my thoughts.  What I write is a small snapshot of myself, not a large sampling and I hope it isn't perceived as such.)
My last blog I wrote- coincedentially, seems to be a large piece of the puzzle- why I'm not writing.  Grief and copeing mainifest themselves in different ways.  The particular exit of my good friend was a painful loss this year.  Many assumptions are easily made about the nature of this friendship and loss especially due to my absent details and veiled language- and I submit most assumptions are likely wrong.  (I do not want to dishonor him or the past.)  But tonight I realized that perhaps my avoidance of my writing is an avoidance of completing my healing process.  I have had a few prominent supporters of my writing- but his was of  particular importance to me- and to him I shared more of my words than anyone else.  His encouragement and positive feedback throughout the years I knew him pushed me past the barriers of prior self-opinions and enabled me to see/believe in myself and in my words in ways I never had before.  I will always honor him for this and other reasons.  Now it is 5:30am and the Wasatch mountains are tinged with light and the birds are beginning to inform the world that a new day is beginning.  Any hope of more sleep is fading by the steady march of the sun's path.  Time to get to the point.  I was not conscientiously avoiding writing because of my loss- All I knew is I did not have the heart- did not have the desire to formulate my words.  I am writing now to accept the source of my heartlessness-  largely to avoid rememberance, pain and loss.  By looking at it squarely in the eyes, understanding it, and letting it go a new freedom is just on the other side.  Looking back at these words today- there is no pain with them.  But there is joy.  Perhaps with the dawn this morning, I gained back a part of me.

A Quest

The older I become the more fascinated I become by the ebbs and flows of our lives.  The choreography of entrances and exits are particularly poignant and surprising.  Sometimes there is great forshadowing leaving the observers, the dancers, the actors, or any involved with great understanding- when other times, a key character seemes to simply vanish or, becomes violently ripped from the masterpiece.  No one likes their favorite characters taken away.  As I watch the stage in hopeful anticipation for the return of a loved character I realize that perhaps their last exit was just that- the last.


I heard once that it is a mercy of God that we do not know the future.  As much as I try to divinate the future at times, I truly honor this saying.  There are a great many moments of my life where I know I could not have handled the anticipation for the experience.  The simple fear of that event would have caused a change in course.  There are many moments I was able to endure simply because I did not know how many pages that scene would last.  Hoping the end must be around the next corner.  And if I knew the future and avoided the cruxes of life where would I be?  How much joy would I sacrifice to avoid the pain?  How much strength and character would I lose? 
 
Human fraility is a particular source of challenge and suffering which has been a frequent source of my thoughts of late. Most poignantly my own and then secondly others. I realize no one is perfect and we are all learning.  I am left thinking how much compassion and forgiveness we need to have for each other as humans. Even at our best we are still so full of flaws that love for our fellowmen is essential to fill in the gaps- otherwise there is no hope for anyone. Where my human frailites and anothers collide can be a disaster- and perhaps some disasters are beyond the repair of love- but at least forgiveness and understanding, that we are all subject to our imperfections, can soften the heart. And most importantly-applying these thoughts to myself not just toward others. 

But knowing that does not make it any less excrutiating to watch my faults and weakness unfold with consequential results.  And to allow those mistakes to remain in the past and not dig them up and relive them seems a monumental task.  An extreme paraphrase from a Joe Goode concert- "I wish I had no memory. Then I would be free to experience each moment new- each meal, each place, each person.  But instead these moments are mixed with memories so I am no longer in the present but caught somewhere in between the past and present."  How eye opening for me to hear this.  How guilty am I of attaching my past onto my present!  A great weakness of mine is not being able to let go.  Why do I hold on- only to impede the present by attempting to hold to the past- past people, past mistakes, past joys, past pains...  Maybe if I let go I think it will be as if it never existed and I want the validity of its existance. Or I am afraid I will forget the lessons of the past-or I have yet to atone enough for the mistakes.  Or- I'm not sure...  But I do know- I love the idea of coming to a moment without the attachment of the past and just being able to experience it.  This must be part of the joy of being a child.  Accomplishing this will require accepting my weaknesses and forgiving myself enough to let the past live in the moment of its creation and not try to carry it with me.  And accepting carrying the joys of the past into the future does not protect them- it actually taints them.   Respecting the past in its rightful place and not being afraid of living and experiencing the present-This is a quest.

What About My Story?

Radio West was playing in my car on the way home tonight.  My secret crush Doug Fabrizio was interviewing the author Elna Baker- title of her book "The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance".  It was a conversation I felt conflicted listening to.  Do I really want to hear the story of an ex-Mormon and her soul searching journey that lead her away from the faith I embrace as truth?  I honor her honesty and her respect for the faith which to this point she still has reverence for.  I believe her journey was difficult and the telling of it also difficult and poignant.  But I was left frustrated and at moments indignant.  Call me narcissistic- but I couldn't help wondering, What about my story? Would anyone care to hear the story of a 33yr old virgin who continues choosing to live the life of sacrifice for her faith?  Or would I be immediately labeled as a passionless, repressed, brainwashed, or a "special" soul that has never opened my mind to other possibilities or just isn't insightful or smart or brave enough to step out of her sheltered world?  Or immediately assumed to be unattractive, backwards, or socially awkward? If I were to write my story of my choice to be an educated, well rounded, traveled, open minded, successful, intelligent, and attractive single Mormon who has never had a drink, coffee, sex, worn a bikini or any of the other unattractive commitments of an active LDS member would the world care to read it? Would Doug Fabrizio want to interview me on the radio?  And truthfully it isn't about "me"- it is about a world that celebrates people who brake free the chains that bind them and stereotype and even belittle the difficult choice to remain true to a faith of discipline.  It is not easy to be chaste at 33.  It is not easy to be chaste at any age.  But does anyone care?