Living a Life of Passion

A college friend of mine pasted a peace symbol on the top of his mortar board at our graduation. I scoffed to myself at his attempt to borrow the trappings of a previous era to play the intellectual rebel. After all, we graduated on a sunny spring day in the late 1980s in northern Utah. The Vietnam War had ended long ago, and those of us outside of international politics hadn't begun to think about the Gulf War. Even the Cold War had begun its closing scenes. We were middle-class white kids on a college campus not exactly famous for a diverse population. We had little to protest.

I have gained a greater respect for my peace sign friend over the years. He was passionate. He believed firmly in justice. A respected photojournalist, he has spent his career giving form and color to the ideals he used to spout over a bottle of Chianti.  I wonder if I have succeeded as well in my own ideals.

I drew my first breath in Cache Valley, the rather idyllic little valley that also formed the backdrop for my college years (though life took me on a bit of a journey between infancy and freshman year). On the day I was born, far from my Rocky Mountains, the United States bombed Hanoi for the first time, two years after the Americans joined the ground war in Vietnam. Back in the States, Mohammad Ali officially announced that he would not submit to the draft. As he said, “I ain’t got no quarrel with them Viet Cong…No Viet Cong ever called me nigger.” Widespread war and race protests were just around the corner, and Ali’s stand helped feed the growing flames.

About the time I broke out into my first baby smile, my family moved to Eugene, Oregon so that my father could complete his doctorate. He studied romantic poets and drank in the protest movement then thriving on the University of Oregon campus. He, too, has lived a life of passion and ideals. As an educator, he championed the arts and highlighted regional history and culture. Privately, he addresses injustice one wounded soul at a time.

I think of my father's integrity in living according to his vision of the world as it should be. I think of my college friend and his peace sign, of Muhammad Ali and his stand against the war. All three live according to a driving force, and I admire that. To an extent, I tend to measure success by how people use their gifts and their life experiences to benefit others. By that measure, my parents rank among the most successful people I know. By that same measure, I fall short.

Now, having fallen short, I think it's time for me to fix my gaze upward and outward and start climbing.

Gardens of God

Sealing Room in Manti Temple

I spent a morning this week in the LDS temple in St. Louis. For members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, temple worship forms the pinnacle of our religious devotion. Like Solomon’s temple in ancient Israel, temples represent our finest workmanship, our most beautiful architecture. While pondering in the temple, I thought of joy and rejoicing, of beauty and God’s presence, of gardens, and of the tools of creation.

The Lord intends for us to live with joy and rejoicing. In fact, in 2 Nephi 2:25 (in the Book of Mormon) we read that “men are that they might have joy.” Through Isaiah, the Lord commands, “But be ye glad and rejoice for ever in that which I create.” (Isaiah 65:18)

To the end that we might experience this joy, the Lord created this earth and beautified it. He gave nature not just function but also form and beauty. God left a bit of Himself in the beauty of His creations. Through that beauty, we touch the divine, whether it is in the stretch of moonlight across a quiet lake or through the ethereal song of a wild bird.

Places of beauty figure prominently in the Lord’s plan for His children, with gardens forming the backdrop for pivotal events. In the Garden of Eden, Adam and Eve walked and talked with God, enjoying His presence in their innocence. In Eden, He gave them the gift of agency, and they used that agency to set the Lord’s plan of salvation in motion.

Transgression made it necessary for Adam and Eve to leave the garden, and forever after humans have experienced the tension between garden and wilderness, between the peace of the Lord's presence and the weeds of everyday life. We learn our greatest lessons in the wilderness of our trials, and we grow stronger as we struggle to reach spaces of beauty and peace. The gardens pull us forward. The wilderness shapes us.

The Savior, Himself, atoned for our sins first in a garden. Though strengthened by His Father’s presence there, he bled from every pore as He struggled beneath the weight of the sins and pains of billions of his brothers and sisters. Then the Savior left the Garden of Gethsemane, only to suffer all that pain a second time in the foul air of Golgotha, for a time utterly alone. It was critical to the plan that He accomplish this part of the atonement outside of God’s presence.

Window at the Carmel of the Holy Trinity

Finally, as the early morning sun stretched over yet another garden, Jesus rose from the dead, bringing hope to a world languishing in darkness. A lovely stained glass window at the Carmel of the Holy Trinity in Spokane, Washington (right) depicts the scene outside the garden tomb. In fact, we owe much of our understanding of religion to the artists and composers who have brought the scriptures to life through the centuries.

Medieval theologians believed that light, as the first act of God's creation, represented the purest manifestation of divine presence. For hundreds of years, artisans have carefully crafted stained glass windows designed to bring that divine light into the worship services of churches throughout the world. Other artists bring beauty through music, dance, poetry, sculpture. Ordinary people live lives of beauty that inspire those around them.

When we create, particularly when we create beauty, we access the spark of God within us. We draw on inspiration and form a partnership with the Creator. At the same time, on those occasions when our creations approach true beauty, they provide a vehicle for the audience to step into the presence of God, if only for an instant.

AXIS Dance Company

Years ago, I sat in a dark theater on New Year's Eve, enjoying Burlington, Vermont's First Night celebration and ready to applaud any event that kept me out of the frigid New England air for a few minutes. The curtain opened, and I sat back in my chair, stunned. A group of dancers, some disabled and some not, kept me entranced for the next half an hour with one of the most profoundly moving dance performances I have ever experienced. Lines between traditional dancer and disabled dancer blurred. Fear and pain and stigma melted away, leaving just the aching beauty of the dance. No sellout performance of the New York City Ballet could have touched my soul more deeply.

I ponder my own opportunity to create moments of beauty for those around me. I no longer dance, and I never claimed any ability to bring canvas or stained glass to life. All the same, I can find my own tools, my own way to live a life of beauty. St. Francis of Assisi said simply, "God is beauty." I look to reach toward God, to build gardens in my life.

All in a Day's Work

I have spent the last few days working retail for minimum wage. At the mall, no less. Yes, the mall. That place I avoid like the plague. That hallmark of American capitalism scented with the ubiquitous odor of Abercrombie meets Yankee Candle meets Cinnabon. I hate to shop, and my days of stalking the cute boy in the music store have long past. Besides, malls remind me of so much of what I deplore in society: shelves stuffed with useless merchandise simply to provide the illusion of prosperity and give us the opportunity to make pointless choices, teenagers wasting time when the world offers so much more than they realize they can attain, food designed to plunge us further into the pit of obesity.

And yet...this has been a good week. Let's face it. A temporary job came when I needed the money. Until I figure out the magic formula for earning my living by my pen or land an interesting job that allows me to wrap my arms around my daughter when she skips down the school bus steps in the afternoon, the local economy offers me limited options. Besides, this retail job affords me time with a dear friend and coworker, and if it interrupts my usual exercise routine, at least the hours of loading boxes on a trailer keeps the muscles from atrophy.

I have had ample opportunity while counting inventory and loading boxes to ponder the difference in my life now from when I last worked for someone else over a decade ago. I note with some sense of surprise how guilty I feel about my soft life. I often deplore the lack of sufficient hours in the day. And yet, I find time to exercise for an hour or two every day. I nap occasionally (although, since I wake up each morning at 5 a.m. to teach a class, I feel less guilty about that). I spend hours at the computer researching and writing a book that I will never sell. Occasionally, not often enough, I snag an hour or two to read a novel. I never watch TV.

This week, when I come home from work wanting a chance to unwind and simply get off my feet for an hour, I hesitate before complaining to my husband, realizing more now than last month just how much he sacrifices his own time for the family. I remember how much I used to accomplish when I worked a demanding job and traveled frequently, yet still managed to teach early morning seminary and raise children and make dinner on a fairly regular basis. I fear my capacity to achieve has diminished.

I remind myself that Brad played the supporting role when I lived a corporate life, making my full schedule a possibility. I think of the stress that full schedule caused and the peace that gradually set in when I traded the dayplanner for a more sedate life at home. I see the value in developing my creative side and providing an anchor for the family. Still, as I finish up my week as a mall rat, I tender a moment of gratitude for the reminder of the rare blessing it has been to raise my children and find myself over these past 13 years. I renew my appreciation for my husband. And I savor more than ever a "soft" life that may not last much longer.

Announcing the Florence Blog

As many of you know, I decided last spring to write a book about my Grandmother Florence. I have included a few random pieces in this blog over the last few months. However, as I begin writing longer chapters that hold little interest to folks outside my family, I have hesitated to post them here.

I have created a separate blog specifically for the Florence pieces. This includes some pieces posted previously here, as well as longer pieces previously unpublished.

Here's the blog: Florence Decker Corry. Enjoy!

Kodak Moments of 2011

Family vacation to Vermont and Maine in June

I tend to rebel a bit against the social expectations that have a strangle hold on Christmas. However, I confess that I do enjoy the cards with photos of friends and their families, some formally posed and some simply caught in the act of enjoying life. I begin to envision our family's year through the camera lens. Mostly, I envision the photos I wish I had taken. I rarely carry a camera, but perhaps I can give you a glimpse of what I see in my mind's eye.

In my favorite Christmas photo so far, Alec sits at the breakfast bar reading a Christmas story out loud, surrounded by a chaos of flour and dirty dishes and green sprinkles. Brad pulls a tray of sugar cookies out of the oven, ready to add them to the pile of stars waiting for frosting. Jared and Kristina cut out more cookies, and I shoo the dog away from temptation. Candles twinkle in the windows.

Adventures with Legos

Another photo shows Devin in Texas, teaching a family about the Savior. Even the father has joined the group in the living room this time. A look of delighted surprise shows on the faces of Devin and his companion as Jose tells them he wants to be baptized at Christmas with the rest of his family.

Thor--um, Alec--arm wrestling

School photos show Alec in his bow tie and cummerbund, tapping his foot while he jams through a solo on the grand piano during a jazz band concert, or putting his fellow football players through their paces in the weight room. (These same players gave him the nickname "Thor" recently, a great boost to the 16-year old ego.)

In another photo, Jared crouches in his football stance, eyes glittering with focus as he waits for the play. Coach Brad paces along the sideline in his do rag, willing his team to succeed. Jared brings that same intensity to everything he does, from football and basketball to piano, not to mention refusing to tap out in a wrestling match with Alec. I will never understand male bonding, I'm afraid.

Little Miss Kristina

The camera catches Kristina mid-run, arms flung wide as she prepares to leap into a Mom hug at the end of the school day, scarf flapping in the prairie wind. Her eyes sparkle with stories of new words and playground antics, and her backpack bulges with the latest drawings and projects from her day at kindergarten.

Coach Brad

There are pages of photos of Brad in my mind: balancing his laptop on his knees while he redesigns the IT department, covered in paint while he works through the night to finish Devin's basement bedroom for those glorious two months when we had the whole family under one roof, or earning the husband of the year award by bejeweling the Christmas tree with lights.

And me? Well, there are the photos of me exercising in my goofy shoes (gotta love Vibrams!), hunched over the keyboard while I write my book, and teaching a group of sleepy seminary students in the early morning. A treasured photo captures a moment on the road back from Delta, Utah, laughing over family stories with my sister and my parents as we enjoy our first road trip together in decades.

Juliana and Brad

This has been a year to savor. I hope Christmas finds each of you with great memories of your own Kodak moments.

Much love and Merry Christmas!
Juliana, Brad, Devin (on a LDS mission in Texas), Alec, Jared, and Kristina

Perfection, Proportion, and Other Myths

I have always aspired to an exalted vision of the "strong, silent type." You know the character: soft-spoken yet profound, mild but still commanding reverence, polished. If I were true to that vision, I would discipline my children gently, yet firmly and with complete consistency. Better yet, I would set such a sterling example and inspire such devotion that they would rarely feel the need to whine or misbehave.

I would have no occasion to cringe at the memory of long ago dating mishaps, never having fallen into the cliche of a rebound relationship or a regretted kiss. Memory would find no emails sent or words spoken in the heat of frustration with inadequate information. I would care less about politics and more about anonymously doing good. And at my funeral, in some distant future, my children would brag about how their mother never raised her voice or engaged in creative profanity, how she never left a project unfinished. In short, they would paint a picture of the perfect lady, and everyone would pause to wipe a tear and sigh at the memory.

Sadly, I will never reach the lofty heights of that perfect woman perched rather uncomfortably--but with such grace--on her pedestal. I will continue to blurt out rough-cut sentiments, only to immediately wish the words back safely in my head. I will periodically set off on grand quests, turning around in short order once reality sets in. I will care too much or not enough. I will respond too quickly and too passionately to the opinions of total strangers.

Back in my college days, a friend said something to the effect that anything worth it was bound to get a little messy along the way. In the midst of our often muddled love lives and the fallout of all the cumbersome life decisions that faced us as young adults, we clung to that philosophy. With all the messiness in our lives, it was comforting to envision grandeur on the horizon.

Recently, while reading E.M. Forster's Howard's End, I discovered the Schlegel family. Admittedly, this novel fell rather lower on my favorites list than I expected. Still, the inner life of the characters left me with much to ponder. Margaret Schlegel, speaks of "proportion," a notion that captures some of the sense of balance and grace that I envision in that ideal woman on the pedestal. While acknowledging the worthy goal of living a perfectly balanced life, Margaret cautions, "Don't begin with proportion. Only prigs do that. ... though proportion is the final secret, to espouse it at the outset is to ensure sterility."

I try to stay on the fringe of the political scene, having come to the realization that my active participation in the process only leads me to frustration and belligerence. However, I follow the elections enough to notice a tendency toward sterility. We criticize one candidate for her clothes, another for his morals, another for speaking off script. Candidates for high office, it seems, need to burst onto the scene with proportion well in hand or suffer defeat.

Years ago, a young lawyer ran for president. He was tall, gaunt, plagued with debilitating depression, occasionally suicidal. In today's media scene, Abraham Lincoln's political liabilities would likely push him out of the running in short order. Yet, according to Joshua Wolf Shenk, in the article Lincoln's Great Depression, "With Lincoln we have a man whose depression spurred him, painfully, to examine the core of his soul; whose hard work to stay alive helped him develop crucial skills and capacities, even as his depression lingered hauntingly; and whose inimitable character took great strength from the piercing insights of depression, the creative responses to it, and a spirit of humble determination forged over decades of deep suffering and earnest longing."

Like many of us, Lincoln lived an untidy life. The national chaos in which he lived formed a backdrop for the inner debris of a lack of formal education and a profound melancholy. Lincoln's constant struggle to achieve balance formed his character in critical ways, giving him the skills he needed to lead the nation at a pivotal moment. Proportion without struggle would have left him handicapped.

I hold on to that goal of balance, or proportion, and I periodically achieve it for a time. It gives shape to my wanderings and invites beauty and peace. In turn, the wanderings, with all of their occasional messiness, lend dynamic tension to the plateaus of balance. Lacking the wanderings, we would have tidiness without substance, order without elegance.

Making Friends

Florence

I have been making new friends these past few months. Charming people, really. Genuine, complex, lots of fun, inspirational. There's Florence, of course. I would love to grow up to be like her, if that's still possible at my age. I think most of all, I admire her ability to connect with people. Everyone gravitated to Florence, it seems. Her siblings returned to her home again and again to sit at her kitchen table and talk for hours. Her troubled nephew flagged her down on the highway once because he knew she would listen with compassion. The mentally handicapped man who sold spudnuts felt like he lost his best friend when she died. She held lawn parties and pajama parties. She inspired the youth that she taught. And she left a little of herself in each of her children.

Fae

Florence grew up in a trio of sisters along with  Fae and Blanche, wonderful women in their own right. I knew Fae as an older woman but have enjoyed making the acquaintance of her younger self. She grew to womanhood in the 1920s, the granddaughter of pioneers. Her determination to write her own story inspires me, and I find myself indebted to her again and again for the volumes of history she left behind. She brought her parents and grandparents to life for me. We share an affinity for the national parks, it seems, and a tendency toward rebellion tempered by an overactive conscience.

Blanche

Of the three sisters, I find Blanche's story the most poignant. As a young girl, she held her baby brother while he died and then grew up watching her mother fade away with tuberculosis. She pinned her life somewhere between the fragility of her mother and the stubborn strength of a father who both exasperated and enthralled her. Somewhere in that netherworld between the two, she lost herself. A fine writer with a soul that reached toward lofty heights, she often stumbled but still found beauty along the way.

Nancy

The sisters shared a pioneer grandmother known for her spunk and formidable nature. Nancy Bean married and divorced twice before leaving one daughter behind and crossing the plains with her second daughter. She met my great-great grandfather upon his return from the gold fields of California, and the two joined the original settlers of Parowan, Utah. Nancy helped the women of the town birth their babies and clothed the men with her homespun suits, all while raising a dozen children. I'm not sure her pioneer spirit filtered down through the gene pool to me, but I love having this powerful woman in my ancestral line nonetheless.

I can't pretend that I know exactly how this next life will shake out. I trust that the common vision of insipid angels singing endlessly with golden harps holds little semblance to reality. At least, I hope we have fashion choices in the eternities that reach beyond the formless white robe and unwieldy halo. I prefer to envision myself trading stories with Nancy while she teaches me how to weave or hiking with the trio of sisters through the mountains. Perhaps along the way we will encounter their father, Mahonri, with his beloved horses or Grandfather Zachariah target shooting with the pistol he called his "second wife." Until then,  I will content myself with the joy of discovering my new friends through the memories of others and the shadows their lives left on my path.