1,000 I guess

Apparently my blog has over 1,000 page views. I don't know if that's supposed to make me feel successful or happy or loved or what. Especially considering 500 of those views are probably from me... Perhaps I'm a bit of an internet narcissist. 

I started this blog about two years ago. Wow. Two years... a lot has happened in that time. Yet I still find myself wondering what I have accomplished. I'm not quite done with my bachelor's degree, although I did survive a few of the most brutal English courses at BYU-Idaho. I have recovered from a few soul-wrenching, heart-ripping experiences, read hundreds of thousands of words, learned a fair bit about myself, turned 21 and 22, and survived multiple singles wards (for all of you not Mormon readers, this is quite the accomplishment, trust me). I have not, however, gotten married, been to a foreign country, written a book, carved a watermelon, or had a picnic in a cemetery. And I'm not President.

I have written about success before, and with much hope and optimism. Small successes can be accomplished every day, it's true. But in the whole scheme of life and eternity, what have I really done? 

...

Luckily, I have thousands of more days to live and thousands of more opportunities to really accomplish something. Something big, monumental. Something truly worthwhile. I have time to progress and grow and reach the goals I have set for myself. Time and will-power is what I've got.

Wish me luck.

Spiritual Ponderings

I have been writing in a new blog for my online New Testament class. Every week I respond to a few questions regarding the section of scripture we have recently read. I have been edified and uplifted as I have pondered and contemplated the scriptures, the human existence, and God. You are welcome to join me by reading my humble thoughts.

Click here to read my simple and awed reactions to the beautiful teachings of the ancient Prophets.

A Short Stroll and An Even Shorter Existential Contemplation

The brown and green speckled carpet sinks,  accompanied by a dull crunch with every step. The grass isn't quite green after a cold winter. That, or it's already dying from the heat. As I walk through the looping cul de sacs and winding neighborhood roads, the song "Little Boxes" starts playing in my head. "Little boxes, little boxes . . . They're all made out of ticky-tacky . . . They all look just the same." But I think to myself that despite the cookie-cutter floor plans and the pristine, sprinkler-infused lawns, each house has its own story. Every family has their own problems, every closet holds its own skeleton. Well, hopefully not literally. I wouldn't want to know about any "Disturbia" stories happening around here. Creepy.                                

In the middle of all these houses, a lonely soccer field sits, the one with the crunchy grass, looking a little neglected. It's a little run down, but not old enough to hold much history. This neighborhood, this town doesn't have any sort of antique feel to it. It's all so young and juvenile. I'm sure it would make an argument for itself, much like a teenager would argue for his or her maturity level... Even the old people seem new.

There's something to be said about the weight and depth held by an old house;  the kind that's perceptible the moment you step onto the property. They're always surrounded by old trees, too. The soaring pines with straggly shadows. The trees that whisper rattling stories when shaken in the wind. The trees here are still too young to speak the language of the past.

Maybe in a few years these houses will develop scars and bruises, proof that lives are lived here. Soon enough the trees will take their first steps toward the sky. Their steps will grow stronger and their paces longer as their roots dig deeper into the ground. Soon, they will learn how to speak. They will tell the stories of those cuts and bruises - the mysteries of life and the lessons we will all someday learn.

Still, I walk past these rows of houses, "the pink ones, and the blue ones, and the green ones, and the yellow ones," as the song says, oblivious to the pages and pages of stories within. I'm consumed with my own story, and the few precious passages I've read from others'.

No Edge

I cannot describe to you the reasons I love the following poem so much. There aren't enough words in any language, let alone English, to do the job. This poem gives me so much hope in my existence, yet reminds me so readily of responsibility weighing down on me... The feelings I have for this poem are as undefinable as the expanse of the universe.

The Red Wheelbarrow
by William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

Driving at Night with Neither Eye on the Road

As the sun fades under the horizon, the moon and the stars appear to take its place.  One by one, they break through the twilight and speckle the sky. These shimmering dots shine down on the countryside, serving some as a guide, serving others as a symbol of deity. Closer to the city, the stars fight for brilliancy as the muted film of the city lights reaches up and forces the stars back into the darkness. Yet one remains, constant and twinkling; solid, as if pasted, tacked, and pinned through to the end of the universe.

Memories and Matches

Memories of him burn a destructive burn. Any lingering thought, any slight remembrance of his laugh or glimpse of his smile turns into a wildfire. A single memory is all it takes. Uncontrollable, it roars through my skull and down my spine, leaving only rubble and ruin. My heart is left scorched and brittle, and blood no longer flows through my veins. I am left empty. All that remains are burnt-up, emotionless ashes and my old hollow bones. I am a façade, a skeleton. All of this because of a memory--one miniscule match in the middle of a forest.

**So, I'm not actually depressed or heart-broken or anything. I'm actually quite content with life. I just felt inspired by the wildfires happening all around. And breaking hearts always make for a good metaphor.

A Moment in the Minivan

So, I turned into my neighborhood today in my parents minivan, taking my time because… well… I was driving a mini-van, and stopped at the stop sign to the main road was a pretty blonde girl. She couldn’t have been older than 17 or 18 years old, but the expression on her face aged her considerably. Her cheeks were red with crying, her eyes puffy and filled with agony. Just the sight of her made me sad. I wanted to open my window and scream, “Don’t cry!!! It’s gonna be okay! Let me help you!!” Just as I was looking away to continue down the road to my house she stuck her head out of her open window around to one of the houses and screamed, “I LOVE YOU!” My window was up, the air conditioning blaring. I couldn’t hear anything except for “safety dance” playing on the radio. Despite the noise, her exclamation resonated throughout my body. I followed her line of sight and found her staring at a boy standing in a driveway. He looked like a miniature Ryan Lochte with his strong jawline, sandy brown hair, and tan skin. He was wearing plaid pajama pants and a dark blue t-shirt. And he was wearing pain. You could see it in the way his body leaned against his car for support, his sunken head and lowered eyes. He couldn’t meet her stare, and only acknowledged her cry with a bob of the head. As she pulled away, turning right out of the neighborhood and out of his life, he looked up, his shoulders sagged, and he turned to walk back into the house. In this five-second glimpse into these kid’s lives, my heart broke a thousand times. Every memory I had ever had of saying, “Goodbye, I LOVE YOU,” flashed across the 62” Plasma plastered in the center of my brain. I was reminded, in glorious high-definition, how much each goodbye really hurt, how much of me left with each tear, and how shriveled up and dead I felt once they were gone. I don’t know their story. I don’t know their names, or what was actually happening. But I did know. I knew them. In that moment of pain and ripping and torture and driving away from the person you love, I knew them. She was me, and he was every guy I have ever loved.