Life in the News Feed

Because this just begs for a FB post...

I went for a bike ride the other day and, as often happens when I ride alone without music in my ear, I found myself composing my morning in the form of a Facebook status. I condensed my glorious ride amid the cornfields into various haikus extolling the wonders of birdsong and the relative merits of prairie wind and New England hills in building strong lungs and muscles. Pure poetry, I tell you. I almost never post my mid-exercise poetic ramblings for public consumption (or, rather, the consumption of those lucky 308 people subjected occasionally to my mutterings on their news feed). However, I find it amusing that I think of my life in those terms.

A friend of mine once found herself in the uncomfortable spotlight of an ongoing news event. As the spokesperson for one side of a political issue, she saw her views reduced to 10-second sound bytes. She would respond to interview questions thoughtfully, only to discover hours later that the sound byte that made the evening news gave a distressingly skewed vision of her stance.

I find the Facebook news feed somewhat akin to the 10-second sound byte: life condensed into a phrase or two. However, in social media I retain control over my 10 seconds of fame (unless, of course, my teenage son sneaks onto my account). Control is a wonderful thing, though with the control comes also the necessity of taking responsibility for that passionate comment posted in the heat of the moment. Oops.

The sociolinguist in me loves the alternately fascinating and annoying window into a filtered world that social media provides. I have a host of people from various phases of my life that I now recognize in snippets, like the vision of a party illuminated in the pulse of a strobe light. Mark builds a marvelous collection of photos from his daily commute into Boston. A host of friends poke fun at life with a sardonic wit that leaves me laughing to myself in an empty house in the middle of the morning.  A former student of mine sailed around the world this spring and posted pictures that inspire me with possibilities.

On the other hand…well, I will spare you my diatribe against emotional exhibitionism, unresearched political scare tactics, the endless minutiae of health woes, and those awful “copy this into your status if you want to end world hunger/support abused children/tell your mother you love her” statuses that leave you feeling like a heartless guttersnipe for scoffing and refusing to re-post. Men and women have died for the right to freedom of speech. Who am I to trample on that freedom just because my news feed occasionally makes me cringe and wish for the days of stone tablets?

I suppose that in the short term, until social media gives way to another cultural phase, I will continue to frame my life in random chunks of thought. This week’s snapshot, for instance? “Strawberry picking with my fellow crazy ladies. Laughter and freezer jam cure a multitude of ills.”

Pinning My Dreams

Recently, lulled by an hour of boredom on a windy afternoon, I gave in to peer pressure and created an account on Pinterest, the virtual bulletin board through which folks trade craft ideas, recipes, and dreams. I initially avoided the site because I abhor crafting. I peeked in the door because I needed a good hummus recipe. I pulled up a chair because I rediscovered dreaming.

I used to dream. Long ago and far away, in a small town in South Dakota, Daddy had an office in our basement. In that office, he created bookshelves out of cement blocks and long plywood boards. Yellow magazines lined those shelves, marching along in a most orderly fashion according to their publication date. For years, my parents subscribed to National Geographic Magazine, and they kept every edition. Every once in a while, perhaps on a Sunday afternoon, we would go on a trip.

"Where do you want to go today?" my parents would ask.
"Hmm...China sounds good," I would answer. Or maybe Alaska, or Egypt, Antarctica.

And off we went. We combed through indices for articles, gathered stacks of magazines, and began our journey, photograph by photograph.

Grand Tetons, Wyoming

We packed those yellow magazines in the back of a UHaul before long and drove off on a real adventure to the deep south. Two years later we moved again, then again. Eventually, we replaced the cement blocks with real bookshelves, the magazines with Google.

In the freedom of early adulthood, I lived a few of my dreams. After all, at nineteen or twenty-something, roadblocks cease to exist. I wanted to hike in the Grand Tetons, so on my day off one summer I stuck out my thumb and hitched a ride. I dreamed of Alaskan tundra, so I found a job and hopped on a plane. Later, I ached for fresh horizons and cozy New England villages with covered bridges and white steeples. This time, I packed my own UHaul and shared the dream with my young son.

Notre Dame Cathedral

That young son grew up, as did his brothers and sister. Our small apartment gave way to a house and piles of things. I built and buried a career.  Life happened. I reveled in Christmas snows, sobbed at petty betrayals, gloried in mountaintop views, but I forgot to dream of faraway places.

And then, I gave in to peer pressure and pulled out the thumbtacks. My "Recipes" bulletin board looked lonely, so I added "Favorite Books" and then "Favorite Places." The photos of dreams realized reminded me of dreams set aside--dreams of Norwegian fjords, European cathedrals and national parks still unvisited. It seems the more I give vision to my dreams, the more capacity I find to dream, and those dreams in turn bring the lightness of possibility to life here and now.

If you promise not to tell, I will confess a momentary gratitude for peer pressure and silly social media.

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