Some People Collect Spoons or Goofy Figurines...

Ansel Adams, Redwoods, Bull Creek Flat 

(c) 2010 The Ansel Adams Publishing Rights Trust

I have little interest in decorative spoons, or stamps, or cheap porcelain angels. I like snow globes, but I would rather not have to dust them. Instead, I keep a collection of quotes. I collect quotes from books and talks, from random radio broadcasts or signs on museum walls. Some of the words inspire me. Some make me laugh. Some just sound nice rolling off my tongue. Because one cannot collect anything without imposing that collection on others, here are just a few of my quotes of the moment.

My friend Ansel on love friendship art nature

Ansel Adams tops my list of quotes this week. In a letter to his best friend, Cedric Wright, he once wrote:

"I saw a big thundercloud move down over Half Dome, and it was so big and clear and brilliant that it made me see many things that were drifting around inside of me; things that related to those who are loved and those who are real friends."

Adams went on to describe his epiphanies about love, friendship and art. I intended to include those epiphanies here, but then I read this sentence at the end of the letter: "I wish the thundercloud had moved up over Tahoe and let loose on you; I could wish you nothing finer."

I thought of a long ago moonrise over the mountains that illuminated something both essential and inexplicable for me, and I remembered the profound peace of a certain slant of light drifting through the leaves on a quiet Sunday afternoon. I understand the power of nature to bring clarity and make of life something noble and grand and positively divine, if only for a fleeting moment.  

Peter Lake on the satisfaction of responsibility

I love the book Winter's Tale, by Mark Helprin. For me, he is an Ansel Adams of words. In Winter's Tale, Helprin gives us the wonderful character of Peter Lake, a poet thief and master mechanic. Peter falls in love with Beverly, and at one point tells Beverly's father:

"When we drove across the lake this afternoon and Beverly held the little girl in her arms, I felt a responsibility far more satisfying than any pleasure I have ever known."

While perhaps not the most evocative example of Helprin prose, that quote strikes a particular chord with me today, on the heels of Mother's Day. No satisfaction I have yet experienced compares with the glorious weight of another soul intertwined with mine.

Alice Ann on teaching teenagers

This week brings to a close another year of teaching early morning seminary to a group of bleary-eyed, yet wonderful teenagers. Each schoolday morning we gather at 6:00 a.m. and study scriptures together. Sometimes they sleep or do homework. Often they sing spontaneously and out of tune in the middle of a lesson, and even more often they wander hopelessly off topic. Sometimes they grumble about early mornings and other injustices, and sometimes they sit rather sullen in the shadow of their hoodies. I regularly despair of teaching them anything of value. And yet, as my friend Alice Ann Harrop reminded us in a recent teacher training workshop:

"The Spirit isn't stopped by hoodies."

Despite the hoodies and the grumbling and the meanderings, I love these kids. I see glimmers of brilliance and compassion and deep thought that give me hope for the future.

Mutterings from the Cesspool of Reality

I find I don't mind middle age so much. I like the freedom that comes with children growing older. I like that we middle folks find it easier to toss aside the facade than we used to, that we seem to have grown more comfortable with the definition we have evolved for ourselves. I feel strong, involved (when I want to be), aware of connections in life around me in a way that I could not have been as a younger woman.

What gives me less joy is the fact that somehow in these middle years we give in to reality. We mature, we apply our experience to our vision of life. We work through our relationships and share our epiphanies with our friends who also struggle with making sense of their own lives. The challenges of raising children and growing a marriage hit us broadside in these middle years, more often than not, and sometimes we reel from the blow. Like most folks, I find a measure of comfort in realizing that my marriage is actually better than most, that the struggles we occasionally face as a family barely hit the Trials and Tribuations charts.

And yet, as I talk with friends and family, as I read blogs and even celebrity interviews, it seems that in our wisdom and maturity we give up on our dreams. Most kids fall way short of the brilliance promised in the proverbial Christmas letter. All marriages struggle. Gwyneth Paltrow reflected the collective middle-age marital wisdom in an interview recently. In that interview, she reported that her father said once that he and his wife have stayed together all these years because they never both wanted to get divorced at the same time. The reality is that most couples fight at least occasionally. The reality is that most professionals fail to find deep satisfaction in their careers. The reality is that few people reach the dreams that propelled them forward in their 20s.

Well, you know what? Reality stinks. The fact is that my dreams DID propel me forward. Reality carries nothing even akin to the motivating power of dreams. In fact, comforting as it may be in a low moment to realize that my failure to reach that far away star simply means I join the rest of humanity on the ground, I happen to like the stars. The view from the lofty heights (or even the view on the way up to the lofty heights I may never reach) awes and inspires me way more than the view from the stable rocks and well-worn dusty paths of reality.

So thank you very much for the wisdom and the camaraderie here on the ground. I appreciate the clarity, and I see the logic. Truly I do. But until I hit another low point, I think I'm going to go back to assuming that the universe has something grand in store if I can only fly high enough.