Fall is Falling

A week or so ago I noticed a tinge of color at the top of the mountain east of my office, but I refused to publicly acknowledge its existence. But now it's undeniable... and moving down the slope (see evidence at right). Even halfway down the mountain there is some good red. Crazy.

Fall always seems to come too early. I usually notice it the last week of August. I remember first being stunned by the early fall emergence when I was in marching band. Band camp was the last week of August, and we would spend almost all day every day marching around on the hot blacktop (we practiced in a big parking lot on campus), sweating profusely. Hats and sunscreen were a must, and water breaks (and fights) were frequent. We called it "Sweat Week." (They're out there today, by the way; I heard them rehearsing this morning.)

One sweaty afternoon, I think it was during a long, wearisome rehearsal, standing at attention with my shiny brass horn held vertical in front of my chest, I let my gaze wander past the drum major and director and on up the mountain. There at the top, a spot of cheery red looked back down at me, as if observing my suffering and enjoying all the more the cool temperatures at high elevation.

It seemed so incongruent to me. I was dying in the full force of summer heat, and trees way up there were telling me it was fall.

Since then I have enjoyed spotting the first rusty color at the top and then watching the color gradually descend the mountain until at last the valley itself bursts forth in yellows and oranges and reds. Then the next spring, I like to watch the reverse, as green returns to the valley and then climbs the mountain to the top, replacing the sad browns with the vibrance of life.

Speaking in Church

A year and a half ago, when my bishop invited me to speak in Church, he asked me to not write out my talk word for word. Rather, he wanted me to prepare carefully and thoroughly but to rely on inspiration to put together the actual words (and perhaps even organization) as I spoke.

I panicked.

I have long been a “write it out” sort of guy. I think better when I’m writing than when I’m talking. When writing, I have time to consider my word choice and organization and select the best presentation. I can revise and edit and revise again. In contrast, when I’m speaking extemporaneously—particularly in debates—I seldom express myself well; I can’t get my arguments together quickly or think of the right examples or put the words together well. I flail verbally and get frustrated.

As I considered my bishop’s counsel, I thought, “I can’t do that. I’ll fall apart. My words will be all jumbled and confused. I’ll say the wrong things. And besides, the Spirit can inspire me beforehand, can’t it?” But in the end, I decided to honor his request.

I have now (as of yesterday) had two opportunities to use this method in Church, and I’ve been pleasantly surprised. In both cases, I prepared abundantly, wrote some critical portions (partially just to get the words in my head), and had much of the talk in outline form. Parts of it were in a planned order, and others were just there to be used whenever and however I felt inspired to use them.

I’ve been pleased to find that I haven’t floundered as badly as I fear, and that the flow has been rather natural. Yesterday, I found myself only referring to my written notes (even the one story I had written out) a couple of times. The rest flowed freely from memory and inspiration. I skipped much of it, used some parts as planned, and used other parts a bit differently than planned.

Preparing and giving a talk this way causes me great anxiety; I would much rather write it all out and be certain of what I will say and when and how. But I have found much value in this way of speaking:

First, I feel like I am speaking more directly to the congregation. I’m not focused on the piece of paper in front of me; I’m not reading words and worried about losing my place. I’m communicating with people. I can look into their eyes and gauge their reaction and engage them in the discussion because my eyes aren’t otherwise occupied.

Second, I can fit the time allotment better. I’m not trying to get through my script and hoping it matches what time is left; I’m not bound to thinking about my topic in one specific presentation order. Rather, I have a bunch of material that I have prepared and studied well, and I can easily adjust my material to the time.

And third, I am more dependent on the Spirit to guide me. Because I don’t have everything planned exactly, I feel a bit more lost and uncertain. I’m more nervous and humble and more aware of my need to be inspired. Consequently, I think the Spirit is more present, and I am able to teach by the Spirit more—because I’m not teaching what I carefully planned but what I feel inspired to share.

There are, of course, drawbacks. Afterward, I stew over what I said and how I could have said it better. I feel bad about things left unsaid or things said the wrong way. And I’m sure the presentation isn’t as polished or smooth and the word choice isn’t as effective.

However, I think the Spirit is abundantly present, and I think that makes up for a lot of the weaknesses.

I have found myself thinking about a couple of scriptures as I have pondered this:

"Neither take ye thought beforehand what ye shall say; but treasure up in your minds continually the words of life, and it shall be given you in the very hour that portion that shall be meted unto every man" (D&C 84:85).

"But the Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost, whom the Father will send in my name, he shall teach you all things, and bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have said unto you" (John 14:26).

I have to say I can better testify of the truth of the principles taught in those verses now than I could before. Ideas and thoughts have flowed freely and easily as I have spoken, and it has been a marvelous experience for me.

Anyway, that’s a lot of rambling. I’m just grateful for an inspired bishop who challenged me to do something I wasn’t comfortable doing.

Web Boggle Champs

While we were in California, Christine and I logged on and played Web boggle with Jen and Chad (Christine's twin and husband). We played as a team (Team Lizzy), with Christine and I on one laptop and Jen and Chad on another (all sitting on the couch together—gotta love wireless).

Anyway, we regularly scored near the top, but eventually we began to wear down and decided we'd only play one more game. On our last game, we hit number 1 (see right).

Granted, it was 11:30 on a Saturday night, but we still beat 54 competitors...

Maturity

At Church on Sunday one of the speakers mentioned that his father became more like a child as he got older and neared death. As I pondered that, I thought about my own efforts to become like a child, and I mused that we spend our childhood trying to become an adult and our adulthood trying to become a child. Or, put another way, immaturity is the process of becoming an adult; maturity is the process of becoming like a child.

Duck Poem

The wave poem reminded me of a poem Christine and I wrote a few years ago when we were rowing on a reservoir near her home in California (California inspires poetry in me, I guess).

Upon the waves the waterfowl rest.
From crest to crest they do their best
to stay afloat beside the boat
and chant the chants their grandfathers wrote:

"Quack-quack quack-quack,
quack-quack quack-quack."
Quack quack-quack,
quack-quack quack-quack."

"Give us some food," the little ducks say.
"Give us some bread that we may play
and while away the hours that pass
darting among the willowy grass."

Sandy Eggo?

As I washed the beach off Lizzy's feet today, I chanted "sandy, sandy, sandy, sandy, sandy." After I had done that for a bit, Lizzy piped up and said, "Like San Diego?"

Watching Waves at Santa Cruz

At the beach today, after running in the surf with Lizzy and Grace (her cousin), I sat on the beach and watched the water with Caroline and this little poem began to take shape.

Blue swells rising,
flashing in the sun,
crashing on the outer rocks,
send me on the run.
Crushing kelp and seaweed,
rushing to the beach,
thrashing on the sandy slope,
and splashing 'round my feet.

Emotional Eruptions

It's my fault. I realized this evening that there's no one to blame but me.

Lizzy regularly falls apart when she doesn't get her way. When friends have to go home, when a party ends early, when she doesn't get a book at bedtime (because she was disobedient), when its time to stop playing and eat dinner. She will wail and complain and cry and whine. Tears and pouting and declarations of unfairness. It can be exhausting to deal with those emotional eruptions, and it can be embarrassing when my family or friends become an audience to the display.

Tonight, after Lizzy had fallen apart twice—once when her abbreviated pre-birthday party with cousins came to an end and once when the "pajama party," designed to ease the end-of-party-sadness, didn't turn out like she hoped and also came to an end—I realized that it is all my fault. When I was younger, I was just like Lizzy.

I distinctly remember being five and having a friend come over one Sunday and protesting and whining because we couldn't play outside (a family Sunday rule). I pouted for a long time and ruined the visit. One of my defining characteristics as a child and teenager was my short temper. I remember often losing it and getting out-of-control angry, yelling, screaming, crying, pouting, stomping off in a huff, and sometimes throwing fists. I also remember acute embarrassment about my behavior—sometimes even in the midst of the outburst—and I remember regrets for opportunities lost.

So Lizzy's behavior is all my fault. She got it from me. And now it's payback time, Lizzy giving to me the embarrasment and frustration that I gave to my parents. I'll just have to figure out a way to help her through it.

You know, if Lizzy got this from me, could it be that I got this from one of my parents? I wonder if one of them behaved this way as a child. Maybe I'm not really to blame after all. It's probably their fault. Or their parents' fault. I'm sure somewhere back the line there's someone we can blame so the rest of us feel better about ourselves.

Bedtime Vocabulary

As I helped Lizzy get ready for bed one night recently, she began probing my vast vocabulary for a particular word.

“What do you say in the morning when you wake up?” she asked.

Not understanding, I asked what she meant. She obviously was having hard time defining the term herself. “After you sleep, when you’re not tired, what do you say?”

“Um, I guess you say, ‘I feel well rested,’” I said.

She wasn’t satisfied, and even after multiple attempts, my spontaneous vocabulary quiz ended with me failing and Lizzy being somewhat frustrated at my inability to provide the word she was after.

Several days later, I completed the bedtime routine and left Lizzy in her room to read with the light on. When I returned some time later and turned out the light, Lizzy protested that she was not ready for sleep. “But I’m not tired,” she said, then edited herself and declared, “I’m so untired . . . I’m so well rested.”

At last I understood the term she was seeking. I have yet to tell her that alert, wired, restless, or bright-eyed-and-busy-tailed might be suitable terms, and she continues to use “well rested” regularly. I probably should give her some alternatives, but it makes me smile whenever she seeks to avoid bedtime by saying, “But I’m so well-rested.”


Another fun example of her desire not to go to sleep at night: The other day I went in to turn out her light and she was asleep with the Friend magazine crumpled between her hands. I gently removed the magazine, trying not to wake her, and she stirred and protested weakly (without opening her eyes), “But I’m still not tired.” Then she promptly fell back asleep.

Freud and Dresses

A group chat this afternoon at work... one person announces she has to leave, so the rest of us start saying our farewells. Remaining participants are

Cute Baby (who used to be Calvin)


Abominable snowman


Fedora


Fedora: ciao

Snowman: cya

Baby: byu

Baby: bye

Baby: freudian slip

Snowman: did freud really wear a slip?

Snowman: 'cause then that would be something

Baby: yeah

Baby: he had issues with his mother