Nirvana

This Summer, while on vacation in New York City, I attended a Manhattan ward. It ended up being a great experience. Not only was it a fantastic place for people watching, the talks and spiritual side of things just elevated me. The Sacrament meeting felt like girls' camp testimony meetings--a conversation instead of a lecture. At the end of the meeting, bypassing tradition, the organist got up and changed the closing hymn to "O My Father."

Calling himself the "Van Halen of Church organists," he had the congregation sing together on the first verse, the women would sing the second verse, men only on the third verse, and then we would all sing together on the last verse. I really took his counsel to connect with the lyrics. I had never caught the profound wisdom of "O My Father." [The version I have linked is by no means my favorite, but this man makes me really happy, and I just feel like this song needs the warmth of a male voice. And I am not really a fan of the Tabernacle Choir--is that horrible? I just don't feel like you can connect to the words and true meaning with a choir.]

Yet ofttimes a secret something
Whispered, "You're a stranger here,"

I needed to be reminded that I am a daughter of God, and that I can develop an everlasting relationship that will help me understand the here and now.

I guess I needed this reminder again because this was what I kept thinking about while watching Ocean Heaven at BYU's International Cinema a few weeks ago.

 

It is an incredible film. See it if you can! It is one of those movies that you come out happy, despite sobbing through it all--it's an accurate representation of life. 

The father in the film eventually realizes that he has to teach his son to be self-relient. It's the best way he can show his love because it will last when he is gone. It was such an allegory for me.

Then, at length, when I've completed
All you sent me forth to do,
With your mutual approbation
Let me come and dwell with you.

Life on earth can be so hard. There is so much we don't understand; we're often like Dafu: afraid and stuck in our own, limited perspectives. But we are so loved my heavenly parents. We struggle because it's all worth it and because we can do it. During the movie, I kept thinking why didn't the dad teach his son these things before? Dafu was capable of so much more than he could outwardly demonstrate. I turn this on myself, and I know I can be so much more.

I've always loved Romans 8. "And if children, then heirs; heirs of God, and joint-heirs with Christ; if so be that we  suffer with him, that we may be also glorified together. For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us." (Verses 17 and 18--there is a footnote that changes in us to to us, but I like this better when I need comfort.)

That's what an incredible parent does--loves in the way that we need it most. Loves us as we fail and often flounder, when it would be easier for him to just do it for us. Accepts and understands us, but pushes us to our full potential. I can't wait to try to be this kind of parent! But in the meantime, I am going to remember that I have parents loving and preparing me. I already have the forever kind of love I am so desperately in need of.

It's Valentine's Day!

"I wonder how well she sleeps at night and what kind of dreams she has. I wish I could step into them like she steps into mine."        

                      --Isaac Marion, Warm Bodies, p. 142

                   

via

Set the Scene

I recently bought this gossip bench at a cute local antique shop, and I am obsessed.

I can picture the old apartment with original, rich hardwood floors in which this will look perfect. It's a space that screams me. And I can't wait.

Now I just need to decide which city to search for this apartment. I'm thinking San Francisco, New York, Portland, or Seattle. And part of me would like to make a pilgrimage out of moving to Wilmington.

Who wants to move with me?

"The past is never dead. It's not even past."
                      --William Faulkner

Gumption

When the movie Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close came out, I wanted to see it in the theatre so badly. The book had reached into by soul, rearranged some of my deep-seated thoughts, and left me blown away in the best possible ways. I was so stirred and transformed by the metaphors and imagery. I felt that the transformation to the big screen would not be as powerful, but just as moving. Things just mean more to me in the theatre--the atmosphere and upright position of the chairs adds to the experience of being taken with the story. In a way, the darkness makes me more willing to be vulnerable to the empathy. Plus it was a movie I wanted to support.

Well, no one would/could go with me. The timing never worked out with those who wanted to see it. And I asked the friends that I thought would go just to go with me, but I always got a no.

So I went to the movie alone. I sat in the back of the nearly empty theatre, sobbing. I am so glad I went through with what I wanted. I got the experience I was hoping for.

It's one of the decisions I value most. I didn't go by myself to wallow. And I didn't go consumed with spite. I did not want to go alone, but after an honest effort to get someone to go with me (even trying to get friends to go out of pity by reiterating that I would, in fact, be going alone), I just went. Embarrassment and fear became irrelevant because I was living the life I wanted. Being my own friend and ally.

I think it is strange that going to the movies alone is such a big deal. (It had always been one of those bucket list sort of things for me.) Going to matinees seems acceptable, but going at night--especially on the weekends--carries so much stigma. Why do you need someone to go with you to sit in a dark place where chit-chat is frowned upon? Of course, it's nice to have company, but being alone shouldn't hold me back. It shouldn't keep me from being the kind of person I want to become.