I was a teenager when I realized for the first time my weekends are only one day long. As a religious person, Sundays are spent at church and various church-related activities or spending time with family. Ideally Sundays are meant to be a day of worship, a day of rest and spiritual thinking. Realistically, Sundays are one of the busiest days of the week.
A typical LDS Sunday consists of at least three hours of church. If you like to sing, there is an additional hour before or after the three hour block to practice with the ward choir. If you really like to sing, there is often also stake choir practice for yet another hour in the evenings. If you are in any sort of presidency (Primary, Young Men's, Young Women's, Elder's Quorum, Relief Society, Sunday School), there are meetings at least every other week, for about an hour each. If you need a new temple recommend or other type of interview with the bishop, that's another hour gone, wait time included. Often there are firesides, open houses, or baptisms, for about another hour or so in the evening, with dessert and mingling afterward. One summer I went to two wards every Sunday, because I had friends in both--this meant five hours of church minimum every week, plus choir. (The times overlapped by one hour, hence the five hours instead of six.)
I stopped doing homework on Sundays. Ha, not just because Sundays can be busy--they aren't always as busy as indicated above--but because of the prophets and apostles admonitions that Sundays are meant to be a day of worship. Even on my busiest Sundays, I felt refreshed for the week ahead when I did not do homework on those days. It was great to take a break from everything academic, and we all know we receive blessings when we follow any of the Lord's commandments. I know it's really hard for some teens to commit to, but I have seen results from planning my studies around my days of worship.
Planning around my Sundays has been an interesting test of faith through the years. People ask, "Oh, what's missing a couple weeks of church here and there going to hurt?" It makes it all the more easy to skip church again, and again. You miss out on building relationships with other faithful members, since you're not there participating in those church activities with them, bonding over the gospel. It also gets easier to justify skipping out on other religious practices, like prayer and scripture study, weakening your testimony over time.
When I was a child, you only missed church when you were vomiting with the flu. Minor illnesses like headaches or staying up too late the night before were never reasons to miss church in my home. You know you have church the next day--it's your own fault if you didn't sleep enough. And religion should be a sacrifice--if anything, going to church can help you forget the pain of a simple headache.
Growing up, my family always went to church on vacation, and I even attended early morning seminary in Florida one time. My dad had a couple work conferences in Orlando, but I had a goal to get perfect attendance for all four years in seminary. Not even Mickey could tempt me from that goal. So we looked up the local wards, made a few calls and figured out which church building would be closest to our hotel. When the kids found out why I was there, they all thought I was crazy--they had never seen or heard of a tourist going to 6 a.m. seminary class. It was good for them to see my commitment, to a goal in general, but more importantly to the gospel. As an added bonus, my dad saw people that Sunday he had met while on his mission over twenty years ago.
Attending church in other states (and later, countries) was also a great confirmation of how the Church operates. All the lessons are the same, we sing the same songs, we read the same scriptures, we dress the same modest way. For an organization that is so far reaching, it makes sense to have this kind of standardization. It prevents well-meaning members from getting too off-course, a deviation that occurs in any civilized society which does not also have the written word.
I was about ten when I realized the gospel is true wherever you go--something I couldn't have learned if I never went to church on vacation. It was even more amazing to hear the Saints in York and London talking about their daily experiences with the Gospel, English accents and all. I remember one of our group leaders got mad at us for making so many comments in Sunday School; Americans are definitely more outspoken than their English cousins. But I figured they would want to hear our stories just as much as we wanted to hear theirs--we were the foreign ones to them.
As busy as they are, as inconvenient as it may seem to plan around them, maybe having Sunday not count as part of my weekends isn't so bad after all.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Movies and Books
I just finished reading the first volume of "The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring" today--not for the first time--and as a reward, I watched the extended film version. Most of the time, I prefer books to their movie counterparts; the films tend to be disappointing. I can think of a few exceptions, however.
The best book gone silver screen I have ever seen is "The Princess Bride." The screenplay stays very true to the book--a very rare occurrence. I think this may be because the original book just happened to translate so well to the screen, that revisions were unnecessary. But does that mean no other books are written well enough to go directly to screen? Or are screenwriters simply overeager to put their own twist on popular tales?
Take the Harry Potter films for example. There is a LOT missing from the films, as any avid book fan can point out. (I still think they should have done "extended versions" of these films, like "The Lord Of The Rings" movies. So what if the kids couldn't get work permits for that many extra hours? I wanted to see them dealing with some Blast-Ended Skrewts!) I think the directors decided to cut out the details that the true readers love to find in order to appeal to a wider audience--the ones with shorter attention spans. Overall, the films for the most part do the novels justice. They are definitely not the same as the books, but I can still leave the theater fulfilled, as it were. (Even though Harry's eyes still bother me--they're supposed to be bright green! Seriously, how much do colored contacts cost?)
One book turned film I was HIGHLY disappointed in was "Eragon." The novels are absolutely fabulous, and I'm still anxiously awaiting Paolini's concluding volume, but the film was a complete disaster. None of the characters matched the descriptions in the book, an especially important detail when the author made it such a point to illustrate those characters' physical features. The plot in the film was inconsistent with that of the book--and I understand this will happen at least in some small degree to nearly every screenplay version of a novel--but there were vital errors that will seriously impact the next film's plot. Not that I ever expect there to be another film--the screenwriters messed up the story line that badly! The one redeeming quality: the computer-animated dragon was cool-looking. Yeah. Not much redemption there.
The "Twilight" books and movies are a pretty decent pairing. Yes, there are some differences between the novels and films, but they are within the acceptable range. (I was disappointed in the director's choice to use a different actress to play the revenge-seeking redheaded vampire in the third film, but my guess is they didn't want to wait for the original to finish the other film she was doing.) We'll have to wait and see about the last film--the two main characters get married and go on a honeymoon in the novel. I thought the scenes were tastefully written in the book, but "tasteful" doesn't sell in Hollywood.
Then there is the other, very rare extreme, where the movie is better than the book. I have not read the book "Stardust," yet other readers have described a few sordid scenes and I doubt I'll ever waste time reading that book. "Wicked," a musical, not a movie, is also more clean than its original novellian counterpart. Interesting--this means I have never had this experience myself, where I thought the film better than the book. Guess that's just the bibliophile in me!
The best book gone silver screen I have ever seen is "The Princess Bride." The screenplay stays very true to the book--a very rare occurrence. I think this may be because the original book just happened to translate so well to the screen, that revisions were unnecessary. But does that mean no other books are written well enough to go directly to screen? Or are screenwriters simply overeager to put their own twist on popular tales?
Take the Harry Potter films for example. There is a LOT missing from the films, as any avid book fan can point out. (I still think they should have done "extended versions" of these films, like "The Lord Of The Rings" movies. So what if the kids couldn't get work permits for that many extra hours? I wanted to see them dealing with some Blast-Ended Skrewts!) I think the directors decided to cut out the details that the true readers love to find in order to appeal to a wider audience--the ones with shorter attention spans. Overall, the films for the most part do the novels justice. They are definitely not the same as the books, but I can still leave the theater fulfilled, as it were. (Even though Harry's eyes still bother me--they're supposed to be bright green! Seriously, how much do colored contacts cost?)
One book turned film I was HIGHLY disappointed in was "Eragon." The novels are absolutely fabulous, and I'm still anxiously awaiting Paolini's concluding volume, but the film was a complete disaster. None of the characters matched the descriptions in the book, an especially important detail when the author made it such a point to illustrate those characters' physical features. The plot in the film was inconsistent with that of the book--and I understand this will happen at least in some small degree to nearly every screenplay version of a novel--but there were vital errors that will seriously impact the next film's plot. Not that I ever expect there to be another film--the screenwriters messed up the story line that badly! The one redeeming quality: the computer-animated dragon was cool-looking. Yeah. Not much redemption there.
The "Twilight" books and movies are a pretty decent pairing. Yes, there are some differences between the novels and films, but they are within the acceptable range. (I was disappointed in the director's choice to use a different actress to play the revenge-seeking redheaded vampire in the third film, but my guess is they didn't want to wait for the original to finish the other film she was doing.) We'll have to wait and see about the last film--the two main characters get married and go on a honeymoon in the novel. I thought the scenes were tastefully written in the book, but "tasteful" doesn't sell in Hollywood.
Then there is the other, very rare extreme, where the movie is better than the book. I have not read the book "Stardust," yet other readers have described a few sordid scenes and I doubt I'll ever waste time reading that book. "Wicked," a musical, not a movie, is also more clean than its original novellian counterpart. Interesting--this means I have never had this experience myself, where I thought the film better than the book. Guess that's just the bibliophile in me!
Friday, January 28, 2011
Bloodsuckers
No, tonight's post is not about vampires (much to my mother's liking). Tonight I recall two similar creatures: mosquitoes and phlebotomists. Both bring back bad memories, both leave their mark, and both are at times unavoidable.
In my youth, I learned mosquitoes can more easily smell your blood if you have recently consumed a banana. Since then, I have discovered there is no conclusive evidence to support this hypothesis, although I avoided bananas for years, and only eat them now on rare occasions. But mosquitoes do find you by your smell. The carbon dioxide in your breath in particular attracts them. The best deterrent I found was to have an oscillating fan blow on me during warm summer evenings; the stiff breeze kept the mosquitoes from landing.
I developed a keen sense of hearing in my youth as well--I could wake up out of a dead sleep if I thought I heard the slightest buzzing by my ears. I would reflexively sit upright in bed, flinging my arm by my ear to drive off the tiny, buzzing alarm. This habit was so ingrained that I nearly took out some friends at school the one day we were playing with tuning forks in science class. They just thought I was having a spasm attack.
I hate bug bites; spiders seemed to enjoy my blood as well. The worst part about bug bites is that the moment you give in to that overwhelming desire to scratch, the harder it is to resist the urge the next time. I have had bites itch for weeks after the bite healed, because of my vigorous initial scratching. (There's something metaphorical in there, how "just once" can hurt.) Scientifically speaking, scratching an insect bite can spread the toxins that make you itch away from the original site of entry. I think slight nerve damage can also occur, causing "phantom" itching later on.
But we can't all hide indoors, living in constant fear of these annoying pests at best, or these plaguebringers at worst. Sometimes being bit or stuck with a needle are just plain unavoidable. Phlebotomists are much bigger and definitely more human than mosquitoes, but they too use needles to siphon off our lifeblood.
When I was in the hospital during my first pregnancy, the doctors insisted on having fresh blood every three days. It is protocol in most hospitals to do this to long-term patients, so if an emergency occurred and the patient started bleeding out, they would already have a small sample on hand with which to find a match. I soon started refusing. I am a "hard stick," because my veins are small and tend to roll. (Even my veins are smart, rolling away from pain and danger!) I decided that my mental health was more important than them having easy access to my blood type in an emergency, especially since the risk of bleeding out was not very high. It was a convenience for them, but a small torture for me.
This refusal always sent the phlebotomists into a tizzy, and the Head Nurse was sent for each time I refused. The nurses would put on their best professional faces, explaining to me again why they needed to take my blood so often. I stuck to my guns, though--I would not be railroaded into submission. I needed to have some say in my care, and I thought every six days was perfectly sufficient. (It would take at least that long for the bruises from the last draw to heal.) I needed my blood!
I have only tried to donate blood once, at a college-sponsored blood drive. I was of course nervous, wary of the biting needles and conscious of the life force the volunteers would be siphoning away. After three different attempts on both of my arms, a fourth poke finally took. Every second my vein was open I was in agony. The blood was filling the bags more quickly than average, and although I was only half way done, the nurse attending me noticed my pain and wanted to pull out early. I told her to leave it be, I was almost done--would they even be able to use half a bag of blood? She ignored me, my blood was not donated, and I had a very large, ugly bruise on half my arm for weeks afterward. I didn't even get to find out my blood type at that time. Never again.
Don't get me wrong, I think the idea of blood drives is very charitable and necessary, it is just not for me or anyone else with tiny, rolling veins. I will find other ways to serve humanity, thank you very much.
There was a time when I would have donated the very marrow from my bones, though. It would have meant having a huge pipe going from my jugular to a filtering machine, then to the artery in my inner thigh for about six hours, after several days of preparatory blood work. (That's the process for marrow donation for short people like me.) Unfortunately, I was not a match for my sister. Although maybe it is good, in a way--if my marrow had failed her like the anonymous donor, I would have felt very guilty and to blame for her eventual death. Perhaps our not matching was a blessing in disguise.
At least she doesn't have to deal with mosquitoes or phlebotomists anymore.
In my youth, I learned mosquitoes can more easily smell your blood if you have recently consumed a banana. Since then, I have discovered there is no conclusive evidence to support this hypothesis, although I avoided bananas for years, and only eat them now on rare occasions. But mosquitoes do find you by your smell. The carbon dioxide in your breath in particular attracts them. The best deterrent I found was to have an oscillating fan blow on me during warm summer evenings; the stiff breeze kept the mosquitoes from landing.
I developed a keen sense of hearing in my youth as well--I could wake up out of a dead sleep if I thought I heard the slightest buzzing by my ears. I would reflexively sit upright in bed, flinging my arm by my ear to drive off the tiny, buzzing alarm. This habit was so ingrained that I nearly took out some friends at school the one day we were playing with tuning forks in science class. They just thought I was having a spasm attack.
I hate bug bites; spiders seemed to enjoy my blood as well. The worst part about bug bites is that the moment you give in to that overwhelming desire to scratch, the harder it is to resist the urge the next time. I have had bites itch for weeks after the bite healed, because of my vigorous initial scratching. (There's something metaphorical in there, how "just once" can hurt.) Scientifically speaking, scratching an insect bite can spread the toxins that make you itch away from the original site of entry. I think slight nerve damage can also occur, causing "phantom" itching later on.
But we can't all hide indoors, living in constant fear of these annoying pests at best, or these plaguebringers at worst. Sometimes being bit or stuck with a needle are just plain unavoidable. Phlebotomists are much bigger and definitely more human than mosquitoes, but they too use needles to siphon off our lifeblood.
When I was in the hospital during my first pregnancy, the doctors insisted on having fresh blood every three days. It is protocol in most hospitals to do this to long-term patients, so if an emergency occurred and the patient started bleeding out, they would already have a small sample on hand with which to find a match. I soon started refusing. I am a "hard stick," because my veins are small and tend to roll. (Even my veins are smart, rolling away from pain and danger!) I decided that my mental health was more important than them having easy access to my blood type in an emergency, especially since the risk of bleeding out was not very high. It was a convenience for them, but a small torture for me.
This refusal always sent the phlebotomists into a tizzy, and the Head Nurse was sent for each time I refused. The nurses would put on their best professional faces, explaining to me again why they needed to take my blood so often. I stuck to my guns, though--I would not be railroaded into submission. I needed to have some say in my care, and I thought every six days was perfectly sufficient. (It would take at least that long for the bruises from the last draw to heal.) I needed my blood!
I have only tried to donate blood once, at a college-sponsored blood drive. I was of course nervous, wary of the biting needles and conscious of the life force the volunteers would be siphoning away. After three different attempts on both of my arms, a fourth poke finally took. Every second my vein was open I was in agony. The blood was filling the bags more quickly than average, and although I was only half way done, the nurse attending me noticed my pain and wanted to pull out early. I told her to leave it be, I was almost done--would they even be able to use half a bag of blood? She ignored me, my blood was not donated, and I had a very large, ugly bruise on half my arm for weeks afterward. I didn't even get to find out my blood type at that time. Never again.
Don't get me wrong, I think the idea of blood drives is very charitable and necessary, it is just not for me or anyone else with tiny, rolling veins. I will find other ways to serve humanity, thank you very much.
There was a time when I would have donated the very marrow from my bones, though. It would have meant having a huge pipe going from my jugular to a filtering machine, then to the artery in my inner thigh for about six hours, after several days of preparatory blood work. (That's the process for marrow donation for short people like me.) Unfortunately, I was not a match for my sister. Although maybe it is good, in a way--if my marrow had failed her like the anonymous donor, I would have felt very guilty and to blame for her eventual death. Perhaps our not matching was a blessing in disguise.
At least she doesn't have to deal with mosquitoes or phlebotomists anymore.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Mormon Myths and Legends
I've been a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints my entire life. Technically you're not baptized until you're at least eight years old, but I was raised going to church every Sunday since I was a few weeks old. I have heard all sorts of strange things said about members, and I'm sure most folks with any ounce of common sense would immediately disregard the most bizarre tales.
My sister was asked once where her horns were, since all Mormons are apparently devilspawn. It kind of makes sense if these people believe Joseph Smith was really Satan, but then it breaks down when you consider that the devil does not have horns, cleft hooves for feet or glowing red skin. I'm sure that amuses him; but no, he resembles a man, the most subtle and beguiling of them. It's also interesting to me that people vehemently refuse to believe there is a God, but they don't ever talk about disbelieving a Satan figure. If you don't believe in one, you don't believe in the other, but nobody ever says so.
Another myth I've heard is that Mormons aren't allowed to dance. Well, apparently we are, since every fourteen year old in the church is issued a dance card and is encouraged to attend church sponsored dances. Now, members do dance differently, in that we believe in modesty and moderation in all things. This means at a church dance you won't (or shouldn't) find teenagers grinding their private parts together through their clothing to rap "music." Dance partners are also requested to dress modestly, keep a respectful distance between their bodies, and just get to know each other without any serious commitments.
Some people used to believe Mormons couldn't drink Coca-Cola because a Mormon owns Pepsi. To my knowledge, this is bogus. The reason we're not supposed to drink Coke OR Pepsi is because of the caffeine. Part of our religion includes keeping our bodies healthy and doing everything we can to maintain our agency. Addictive substances like caffeine, nicotine and other drugs reduce our ability to choose righteously and can significantly shorten one's lifespan. Living a good life is hard enough; we don't need drugs to make things more complicated. But you will not be kicked out of church for drinking a cola.
The whole polygamy issue is a thorny one; there was a brief period of time in our church history where the members did practice polygamy. What most people not of our faith don't understand is the principle of modern revelation. God is not dead, and He still speaks to us through His prophets and to us directly, for smaller, more personal problems: personal revelation. Polygamy is one of those things that we were later instructed was no longer necessary or correct anymore. Those who practice it now are in direct violation of our current prophet's commandments.
But I'm not sure what will happen to them in the next life. Personally, I believe we "get credit for trying," as one illiterate pirate said about reading the Bible, in the "Pirates of the Caribbean" movie. It just depends on the intent in a person's heart when they were doing what they considered "right."
Women in the church are allowed to wear pants, and pretty much any other piece of modern clothing as long as it is modest. This means we avoid skin-tight, revealing clothing, and anything too low-cut. Skirts and shorts must reach to the knee, shoulder must be covered, and no bare-midriffs. We definitely do not have to wear ankle-length pioneer skirts all the time (thank goodness!)
Mormon families are also not required to be a minimum size of seven, or any other number. A family's size is strictly between the husband, wife and Heavenly Father. (This is another example where personal revelation comes into play.) The only thing the church says about family size is the guidance to only have as many children as can be properly cared for by the couple. I think this means emotionally and spiritually, not just physically. The church also says not to put off having a family, and that things like education and careers aren't a good enough reason to wait.
Personally, I think that's because it's too easy to get distracted by careers, and before you know it, you're too old to have kids or too set in your ways for it to be an easy adjustment. You have more time to talk yourself out of it. Really, the leaders of the church just want as many people exposed to the Gospel as possible, and the family unit is the best place to teach, learn and grow.
Well, I think that's enough debunking for now. Bedtime!
My sister was asked once where her horns were, since all Mormons are apparently devilspawn. It kind of makes sense if these people believe Joseph Smith was really Satan, but then it breaks down when you consider that the devil does not have horns, cleft hooves for feet or glowing red skin. I'm sure that amuses him; but no, he resembles a man, the most subtle and beguiling of them. It's also interesting to me that people vehemently refuse to believe there is a God, but they don't ever talk about disbelieving a Satan figure. If you don't believe in one, you don't believe in the other, but nobody ever says so.
Another myth I've heard is that Mormons aren't allowed to dance. Well, apparently we are, since every fourteen year old in the church is issued a dance card and is encouraged to attend church sponsored dances. Now, members do dance differently, in that we believe in modesty and moderation in all things. This means at a church dance you won't (or shouldn't) find teenagers grinding their private parts together through their clothing to rap "music." Dance partners are also requested to dress modestly, keep a respectful distance between their bodies, and just get to know each other without any serious commitments.
Some people used to believe Mormons couldn't drink Coca-Cola because a Mormon owns Pepsi. To my knowledge, this is bogus. The reason we're not supposed to drink Coke OR Pepsi is because of the caffeine. Part of our religion includes keeping our bodies healthy and doing everything we can to maintain our agency. Addictive substances like caffeine, nicotine and other drugs reduce our ability to choose righteously and can significantly shorten one's lifespan. Living a good life is hard enough; we don't need drugs to make things more complicated. But you will not be kicked out of church for drinking a cola.
The whole polygamy issue is a thorny one; there was a brief period of time in our church history where the members did practice polygamy. What most people not of our faith don't understand is the principle of modern revelation. God is not dead, and He still speaks to us through His prophets and to us directly, for smaller, more personal problems: personal revelation. Polygamy is one of those things that we were later instructed was no longer necessary or correct anymore. Those who practice it now are in direct violation of our current prophet's commandments.
But I'm not sure what will happen to them in the next life. Personally, I believe we "get credit for trying," as one illiterate pirate said about reading the Bible, in the "Pirates of the Caribbean" movie. It just depends on the intent in a person's heart when they were doing what they considered "right."
Women in the church are allowed to wear pants, and pretty much any other piece of modern clothing as long as it is modest. This means we avoid skin-tight, revealing clothing, and anything too low-cut. Skirts and shorts must reach to the knee, shoulder must be covered, and no bare-midriffs. We definitely do not have to wear ankle-length pioneer skirts all the time (thank goodness!)
Mormon families are also not required to be a minimum size of seven, or any other number. A family's size is strictly between the husband, wife and Heavenly Father. (This is another example where personal revelation comes into play.) The only thing the church says about family size is the guidance to only have as many children as can be properly cared for by the couple. I think this means emotionally and spiritually, not just physically. The church also says not to put off having a family, and that things like education and careers aren't a good enough reason to wait.
Personally, I think that's because it's too easy to get distracted by careers, and before you know it, you're too old to have kids or too set in your ways for it to be an easy adjustment. You have more time to talk yourself out of it. Really, the leaders of the church just want as many people exposed to the Gospel as possible, and the family unit is the best place to teach, learn and grow.
Well, I think that's enough debunking for now. Bedtime!
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Procrastination
The poison of the masses, yet no one has found a surefire cure. It's especially difficult for people with ADD/ADHD, since the pressure of performing so late in the game is stimulating for their brains, thus making a boring task interesting. Procrastination was also my high school graduating class' unifying theme. As diverse as we were, the entire Senior Class of 2003 was known for putting everything off until the last possible minute. (Wow, my 10 year reunion is coming up pretty soon...)
It seems a bit odd to me, but I tend to get more done in my day when I have more tasks to accomplish. Today for example, my schedule consisted of dishes, making dinner, and visiting with some church ladies. Oh, and write this blog entry. There is still a huge, growing pile of dishes in my sink, and I'm most likely going straight to bed after I finish this entry. On Sunday, however, I managed to vacuum, make a cake, clean the bathroom, shower, shave, attend three hours of church, cook beef stroganoff from scratch and host a small family get-together. So the less I have to do (especially when it's dishes--my least favorite chore), the more likely I am to put it off.
It's even worse now that I'm done with school and not working. There is no motivation to get anything done, since I just have to repeat all the same tasks week after week anyway. It helps me to have the pressure of teachers handing out assignments and grades to earn along the way, or an editor hounding me for my article. (Actually, my editor didn't really have to sit on me to get things done--it was pride in my work that motivated me to stay on task.) The best cure for procrastination is plain old discipline; for now, I'm simply lacking the motivation to enforce self-discipline.
A dream without a goal or vision for how to attain said dream is practically worthless in my view. Dreams aren't the same as hope, though. Hope is what gets you through the hard times, when nothing seems like it will be all right, ever again. Hope is believing that, despite your current situation, despite personal shortcomings or cosmic forces blocking your path, you will still attain happiness and satisfaction in life. Hope is something I hang on to with a dogged determination, even when there is no sign of a plan.
Speaking of dreams with no concrete plans, I started a binder during the summer. This binder contains clippings from magazines of everything I want in my future home. I've picked out color palates of carpeting, sofa styles, inexpensive and renewable flooring, kitchen layouts and all kinds of neat design ideas. It's been a way to help me stay patient as I wait for things to happen in my life. But I realized this week that I have no plan for obtaining my own home. I've always had goals for pretty much everything in my life. So that binder is now useless, until I make a plan.
People tend to procrastinate more out of fear than plain old laziness, from what I've seen in life. We fear failure, so it's easier to put off a task until the last minute--that way we can blame our failure on not having enough time to do said task. And if we succeed, well, then there was no need to worry about it so much after all. I like what Marianne Williamson had to say about fear:
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear
is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness,
that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous,
talented and fabulous?
Actually who are we not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small doesn't serve the world.
There is nothing enlightened about shrinking
so that other people
won't feel insecure around you.
We are all meant to shine as children do.
We were born to make manifest
the glory of God that is within us.
It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.
And when we let our own light shine,
we unconsciously give other people
permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear,
our presence automatically liberates others.
So stop being afraid of your own potential, and shine. Maybe I'll keep my dream house binder after all.
It seems a bit odd to me, but I tend to get more done in my day when I have more tasks to accomplish. Today for example, my schedule consisted of dishes, making dinner, and visiting with some church ladies. Oh, and write this blog entry. There is still a huge, growing pile of dishes in my sink, and I'm most likely going straight to bed after I finish this entry. On Sunday, however, I managed to vacuum, make a cake, clean the bathroom, shower, shave, attend three hours of church, cook beef stroganoff from scratch and host a small family get-together. So the less I have to do (especially when it's dishes--my least favorite chore), the more likely I am to put it off.
It's even worse now that I'm done with school and not working. There is no motivation to get anything done, since I just have to repeat all the same tasks week after week anyway. It helps me to have the pressure of teachers handing out assignments and grades to earn along the way, or an editor hounding me for my article. (Actually, my editor didn't really have to sit on me to get things done--it was pride in my work that motivated me to stay on task.) The best cure for procrastination is plain old discipline; for now, I'm simply lacking the motivation to enforce self-discipline.
A dream without a goal or vision for how to attain said dream is practically worthless in my view. Dreams aren't the same as hope, though. Hope is what gets you through the hard times, when nothing seems like it will be all right, ever again. Hope is believing that, despite your current situation, despite personal shortcomings or cosmic forces blocking your path, you will still attain happiness and satisfaction in life. Hope is something I hang on to with a dogged determination, even when there is no sign of a plan.
Speaking of dreams with no concrete plans, I started a binder during the summer. This binder contains clippings from magazines of everything I want in my future home. I've picked out color palates of carpeting, sofa styles, inexpensive and renewable flooring, kitchen layouts and all kinds of neat design ideas. It's been a way to help me stay patient as I wait for things to happen in my life. But I realized this week that I have no plan for obtaining my own home. I've always had goals for pretty much everything in my life. So that binder is now useless, until I make a plan.
People tend to procrastinate more out of fear than plain old laziness, from what I've seen in life. We fear failure, so it's easier to put off a task until the last minute--that way we can blame our failure on not having enough time to do said task. And if we succeed, well, then there was no need to worry about it so much after all. I like what Marianne Williamson had to say about fear:
Our deepest fear
is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness,
that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous,
talented and fabulous?
Actually who are we not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small doesn't serve the world.
There is nothing enlightened about shrinking
so that other people
won't feel insecure around you.
We are all meant to shine as children do.
We were born to make manifest
the glory of God that is within us.
It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.
And when we let our own light shine,
we unconsciously give other people
permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear,
our presence automatically liberates others.
So stop being afraid of your own potential, and shine. Maybe I'll keep my dream house binder after all.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Movie Review Mondays: Ramona and Beezus
My apologies for not posting yesterday, I wasn't feeling well. To make up for it, I am introducing a new element to my blog: Movie Review Mondays. (Yes, today is Tuesday, but in the future the movie reviews will be posted on Mondays.) To start, I will post a review I wrote for the Tri-City Voice, a paper based out of Fremont, CA. Since I wrote this article for this paper, I do not own it anymore, but I did receive permission from the paper to post it in my blog.
Just to clarify, my reviews will not be critiques, just an overview of the plot, some key actors and my recommendations. If you would like to see me critically review some films, let me know in the comments section.
Just to clarify, my reviews will not be critiques, just an overview of the plot, some key actors and my recommendations. If you would like to see me critically review some films, let me know in the comments section.
“Ramona and Beezus” Movie Review
By Mary Dixon
Rating: G
Run Time: 104 minutes
Release Date: Summer 2010
Families of all ages will love watching Beverly Cleary’s beloved characters come to life in this screen adaptation of “Ramona and Beezus.” Elizabeth Allen, director of “Aquamarine” (2006), has assembled a talented cast, including Disney Channel star and singer Selena Gomez and actor Josh Duhamel, known for his roles in such films as “Win A Date With Tad Hamilton!” (2004) and “When In Rome” (2010).
Viewers are immediately introduced to Ramona Quimby and her unique view of the world. A simple set of swinging rings on the school playground stretches out to be miles long, with a vast canyon yawning below her feet! But then the school bell chimes and Ramona finds herself stuck, upside-down on the school yard equipment. The teacher, Mrs. Meacham (Sandra Oh, best known for her role as TV’s Dr. Cristina Yang in “Grey’s Anatomy”) has to help rescue Ramona. Once again Ramona’s imagination gets her into trouble.
Ramona’s family is a typical example, with a mother, father and two siblings, including baby Roberta and Ramona’s older sister, Beezus, whose real name is Beatrice. At first all seems well, but one day Robert Quimby (John Corbett, “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” 2002) comes home with bad news: he lost his job. Beezus immediately assumes they will lose the house, and tells Ramona, who then tries to earn money to save it.
Allen is extremely lucky to have found such a talented young actress to play Ramona Quimby. New to the big screen this year, Joey King makes it easy to believe she actually is Ramona, an imaginative and mischievous 9-year-old girl. King is sincere and loveable in her role, and viewers should expect to see her on the silver screen again, very soon.
The film begins with cheery, upbeat music, a version of “Walking on Sunshine” and includes recent music, such as “Say Hey (I Love You)” by Michael Franti & Spearhead. This up-to-date music helps moviegoers feel like the film is relevant, despite the fact that the book was written in the 1950s.
The scenes that reveal how Ramona sees the world are bright, fun, and a wonderful interpretation of a child’s imagination. It is a fairly reality-based film, however, and these fantastic scenes are only sprinkled in for flavor. Again, even though the book was written over 50 years ago, Cleary’s characters are timeless. Almost everyone has had to deal with an annoying sister or brother, and everyone has had to learn the hard lessons in life.
One criticism of this film is that it really doesn’t focus just on the relationship between Ramona and Beezus, which is what viewers would expect from all the advertisements. The film is more about Ramona and her father. Viewers do see the relationship develop between the sisters, just not as much as is anticipated.
Another issue is that some young viewers might find the conversations between the adult characters somewhat boring, like Aunt Bea (Ginnifer Goodwin, “He’s Just Not That Into You” 2009) and her former high school sweetheart Hobart (Josh Duhamel). The writers did do a good job breaking those essential character-developing conversations up between fun scenes of car washes and water fights, though.
Overall, “Ramona and Beezus” is a perfect family-film to see this summer. Joey King makes it fun, Selena Gomez makes it relevant, and John Corbett makes it real. Don’t miss this soon-to-be family classic!
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Car Trips
There's nothing quite like a long car ride after being stuck in one place for a while. Maybe it's my travel bug, but I really like traveling sometimes. I have many childhood memories in the backseat of my parents' cars, many of which include me and my sister getting more and more angry with each other as we battle over that middle line in the backseat, the one dividing the car seat cushions.
We spent many hot summer hours in my mom's radioless, air-conditionless tan Honda from the 1980s, driving from California to Nevada. It was fun visiting my cousins, but boy, those car rides were long and very hot. About the time my sister learned how thermoses can keep drinks cold, we decided to put ice in plastic containers to keep our snacks cool. These containers were not specially insulated, however, nor did we think to put the ice in a separate bag first. Let's just say I had some pretty soggy Starbursts in my Tupperware cylinder that afternoon.
I've also driven down to Disneyland a few times and up to what is now known as a Six Flags, formerly Marine World U.S.A. When my sister and I were old enough to realize we were going on a special trip, we would try extra hard to be nice to each other. I don't think my dad ever turned the car around, but we knew my parents were perfectly willing to keep us home or at the hotel if we were being bratty. That's the tough part about being a parent that I experience already--sometimes you just have to accept you won't always be able to stay and enjoy yourself if it means disciplining your kids.
One of the best parts about those surprise trips was the ride home after a long and very fun day. If we got something new, we would play quietly in the car, admiring our new small trinkets, our eyelids getting heavier and heavier as the gentle hum of pavement passing beneath the tires lulled us to sleep. I say "if" because my parents did not have a lot of money when we were growing up, and I think that even if they did, they still wouldn't buy us a new something every time we went out. That's how kids get spoiled.
It also made those times when we did get a new toy extra special. I think that taught me and my sister to be more grateful and not take the entire trip for granted, and it helped us be more aware of our family's situation. I remember feeling guilty once when I caught myself looking at all the new toys, wishing for one. I knew we didn't have a lot of money, and it was a sacrifice just to go to the theme park. I believe I was about eight years old at the time, feeling bad for having greedy thoughts. There aren't even adults who have that kind of self-awareness.
Road trips aren't always fun, though. One time my folks' car broke down in the Bermuda Triangle of the Sierra Nevada mountains: Truckee. I swear, every time I go that route or talk with someone who has, something goes wrong with the car. We had to rent a station wagon, my two little cousins in tow, while they listened to the Beatles and the Beach Boys all the way home. (Sorry, I'm really NOT a fan of soft rock or easy listening.)
While waiting for a tow truck, us girls had to pee, so we went off the road in search of somewhere to squat. Unfortunately, this was also rattlesnake territory. One of us thought we heard something, another one saw something moving, so naturally we high-stepped it back up to the road, squealing like the girls we are.
The one fun part I remember is being in the car as it was towed. The truck pulled us up onto a level platform, so we were very high up off the ground. My dad was still in the driver's seat, holding the wheel, as per reflex. Then after a while, he suddenly turned around, waving at us with both his hands. "Hi, girls!" All three of us screamed before we remembered we were on a tow truck. We had forgotten he wasn't driving anymore! But that's my dad for ya.
Since I earned my driver license, road trips are even more interesting. I love driving down a highway, cruising at a comfortable 75 miles an hour, my favorite tunes cranked up and a destination to reach. A car is also the perfect place to have deep conversations. My sister taught me that if I ever wanted to have a guy open up to me, all I needed to do was go on a long car ride with him. It can also be great for family relationships.
My dad always planned our family's trips; now I have my own car, my own family, and I'm in charge. I like it. But I do miss the old days. That's what memories are for, I suppose. I'm glad we had a chance to make them.
We spent many hot summer hours in my mom's radioless, air-conditionless tan Honda from the 1980s, driving from California to Nevada. It was fun visiting my cousins, but boy, those car rides were long and very hot. About the time my sister learned how thermoses can keep drinks cold, we decided to put ice in plastic containers to keep our snacks cool. These containers were not specially insulated, however, nor did we think to put the ice in a separate bag first. Let's just say I had some pretty soggy Starbursts in my Tupperware cylinder that afternoon.
I've also driven down to Disneyland a few times and up to what is now known as a Six Flags, formerly Marine World U.S.A. When my sister and I were old enough to realize we were going on a special trip, we would try extra hard to be nice to each other. I don't think my dad ever turned the car around, but we knew my parents were perfectly willing to keep us home or at the hotel if we were being bratty. That's the tough part about being a parent that I experience already--sometimes you just have to accept you won't always be able to stay and enjoy yourself if it means disciplining your kids.
One of the best parts about those surprise trips was the ride home after a long and very fun day. If we got something new, we would play quietly in the car, admiring our new small trinkets, our eyelids getting heavier and heavier as the gentle hum of pavement passing beneath the tires lulled us to sleep. I say "if" because my parents did not have a lot of money when we were growing up, and I think that even if they did, they still wouldn't buy us a new something every time we went out. That's how kids get spoiled.
It also made those times when we did get a new toy extra special. I think that taught me and my sister to be more grateful and not take the entire trip for granted, and it helped us be more aware of our family's situation. I remember feeling guilty once when I caught myself looking at all the new toys, wishing for one. I knew we didn't have a lot of money, and it was a sacrifice just to go to the theme park. I believe I was about eight years old at the time, feeling bad for having greedy thoughts. There aren't even adults who have that kind of self-awareness.
Road trips aren't always fun, though. One time my folks' car broke down in the Bermuda Triangle of the Sierra Nevada mountains: Truckee. I swear, every time I go that route or talk with someone who has, something goes wrong with the car. We had to rent a station wagon, my two little cousins in tow, while they listened to the Beatles and the Beach Boys all the way home. (Sorry, I'm really NOT a fan of soft rock or easy listening.)
While waiting for a tow truck, us girls had to pee, so we went off the road in search of somewhere to squat. Unfortunately, this was also rattlesnake territory. One of us thought we heard something, another one saw something moving, so naturally we high-stepped it back up to the road, squealing like the girls we are.
The one fun part I remember is being in the car as it was towed. The truck pulled us up onto a level platform, so we were very high up off the ground. My dad was still in the driver's seat, holding the wheel, as per reflex. Then after a while, he suddenly turned around, waving at us with both his hands. "Hi, girls!" All three of us screamed before we remembered we were on a tow truck. We had forgotten he wasn't driving anymore! But that's my dad for ya.
Since I earned my driver license, road trips are even more interesting. I love driving down a highway, cruising at a comfortable 75 miles an hour, my favorite tunes cranked up and a destination to reach. A car is also the perfect place to have deep conversations. My sister taught me that if I ever wanted to have a guy open up to me, all I needed to do was go on a long car ride with him. It can also be great for family relationships.
My dad always planned our family's trips; now I have my own car, my own family, and I'm in charge. I like it. But I do miss the old days. That's what memories are for, I suppose. I'm glad we had a chance to make them.
Friday, January 21, 2011
My Brother's Keeper
"And the Lord said unto Cain: Where is Abel, thy brother? And he said: I know not. Am I my brother's keeper?" (Genesis 4:9) Every once in a while this scripture comes to mind, particularly when I am in a situation where I feel compelled to intervene. My personal philosophy is yes, I am my brother's--and sister's--keeper.
In the Mormon church, we call each other "Brother Smith" and "Sister Lee," not mister, misses, or doctor. In one way it makes us all equals, stripping away worldly titles and things that would set us above or beneath one another. In another way, however, it reminds us how we should treat each other. For those who don't have good relationships with their siblings--well, hopefully your church family can show you more loving examples.
Not everyone feels it is their place to say something, though. I prefer to err on the side of saying something, unless specifically instructed not to say anything. I was working at a Deseret Industries a few years back, a secondhand shop or thrift store run by the church to help members and local community members learn valuable trade skills. In my case it was to help put my husband through college.
One day I noticed a customer walking the store with her baby in tow. Her outfit stood out as particularly odd to me. Members of the church who have temple recommends wear special underclothes, called garments. The point of these garments is to remind us of the covenants we have made, and they are an easy reference guide for picking out modest clothing. This means shorts and skirts must go to the knee and shirts must cover the entire torso and shoulders. This lady was wearing a spaghetti string tank top, with her garments clearly showing underneath.
After my initial surprise, I went and found one of the managers, also a member of the church, and asked him if I should go tell that lady she should wear a regular shirt with her garments. When I say I asked him, I was only following protocol--I already had one foot back out on the store's main floor. From my perspective, this lady showing her garments like that was similar to someone walking out of the restroom with toilet paper stuck to their shoe. It wasn't a major violation of our beliefs or anything, but I felt embarrassed for her. However, my manager said it wasn't our place to say anything to this woman.
In the end, I followed his instructions. (I couldn't exactly go directly against his orders... Sometimes it's better to ask forgiveness than permission.) It still bugs me that I didn't say anything to her. She probably just didn't know, or just wasn't thinking. In the meantime her mistake could cause confusion among new members, or she could very well end up wearing something worse. Now I'll never know.
There have been other times in my life where those around me have advised me not to say anything, because it "isn't my place" to do so. I can't shake the feeling they are wrong, though. It would be like a new member coming to church with a trained bear on a lead. We wouldn't turn them away, but unless they are instructed, they would never know that that behavior is inappropriate.
Our church teaches all members to dress modestly, so when the time comes for them to make covenants and start wearing garments it will already be a habit. Young women who are taught to have respect for their bodies by keeping them modestly covered ("modest is hottest") are also more likely to stay out of trouble. And when the girls are dressed modestly, then the boys stay out of trouble, too. But what if nobody at church is bold enough to quietly pull a young lady aside, and help her see how her clothing needs to be more modest?
If everyone keeps passing the buck, thinking someone will say something eventually, there are many lost teaching opportunities. Sure, the girl might figure it out on her own eventually, but what if it takes a couple years? The adjustment might be harder for her to make, if she has a whole closet full of not quite modest clothes, and a couple of guys may have been tempted in the meantime. Really, it's about lost blessings, though, not condemnations.
As far as being out in the world and acting as each others' keepers, I still believe it is more prudent to open our mouths and say something than it is to keep silent. How will pregnant teenagers know there are more options than just abortion or being a single mom if nobody feels it is their "place" to say something? (By the way, the best option is for that teenage girl to put the baby up for adoption, so the mother can get her life back in order and so that baby can have both a mother and a father who want and are ready for it.) How will kids raised on the streets ever become responsible members of society, fulfilled human beings, if nobody tells them they have options? If nobody believes in them enough to even suggest higher education?
I am definitely not saying to be rude about it; I believe the scripture that says contention is of the devil (3 Nephi 11:29). As soon as you start interjecting your own piousness, putting someone down or arguing with them as to why they are wrong, your teaching opportunity is long gone. In the church, teachers receive instruction, the most important of which is to teach by the Spirit. If we have the Spirit with us, guiding us in our discussions, we're a lot more likely to get through to those people we're trying to reach.
In the process of trying to be each others' keepers, I guarantee we will still say the wrong things sometimes. It's okay, we are imperfect beings. It's the intent that counts. If I am ever chastised for something I am not actually doing wrong, I take it at the person's intent. I appreciate their concern for me, and I am glad they are doing their best to do what is right. Most of the time, people only say those things because they care. And if not, well, I am a happier person if I give them the benefit of the doubt.
So are you your brother's keeper?
In the Mormon church, we call each other "Brother Smith" and "Sister Lee," not mister, misses, or doctor. In one way it makes us all equals, stripping away worldly titles and things that would set us above or beneath one another. In another way, however, it reminds us how we should treat each other. For those who don't have good relationships with their siblings--well, hopefully your church family can show you more loving examples.
Not everyone feels it is their place to say something, though. I prefer to err on the side of saying something, unless specifically instructed not to say anything. I was working at a Deseret Industries a few years back, a secondhand shop or thrift store run by the church to help members and local community members learn valuable trade skills. In my case it was to help put my husband through college.
One day I noticed a customer walking the store with her baby in tow. Her outfit stood out as particularly odd to me. Members of the church who have temple recommends wear special underclothes, called garments. The point of these garments is to remind us of the covenants we have made, and they are an easy reference guide for picking out modest clothing. This means shorts and skirts must go to the knee and shirts must cover the entire torso and shoulders. This lady was wearing a spaghetti string tank top, with her garments clearly showing underneath.
After my initial surprise, I went and found one of the managers, also a member of the church, and asked him if I should go tell that lady she should wear a regular shirt with her garments. When I say I asked him, I was only following protocol--I already had one foot back out on the store's main floor. From my perspective, this lady showing her garments like that was similar to someone walking out of the restroom with toilet paper stuck to their shoe. It wasn't a major violation of our beliefs or anything, but I felt embarrassed for her. However, my manager said it wasn't our place to say anything to this woman.
In the end, I followed his instructions. (I couldn't exactly go directly against his orders... Sometimes it's better to ask forgiveness than permission.) It still bugs me that I didn't say anything to her. She probably just didn't know, or just wasn't thinking. In the meantime her mistake could cause confusion among new members, or she could very well end up wearing something worse. Now I'll never know.
There have been other times in my life where those around me have advised me not to say anything, because it "isn't my place" to do so. I can't shake the feeling they are wrong, though. It would be like a new member coming to church with a trained bear on a lead. We wouldn't turn them away, but unless they are instructed, they would never know that that behavior is inappropriate.
Our church teaches all members to dress modestly, so when the time comes for them to make covenants and start wearing garments it will already be a habit. Young women who are taught to have respect for their bodies by keeping them modestly covered ("modest is hottest") are also more likely to stay out of trouble. And when the girls are dressed modestly, then the boys stay out of trouble, too. But what if nobody at church is bold enough to quietly pull a young lady aside, and help her see how her clothing needs to be more modest?
If everyone keeps passing the buck, thinking someone will say something eventually, there are many lost teaching opportunities. Sure, the girl might figure it out on her own eventually, but what if it takes a couple years? The adjustment might be harder for her to make, if she has a whole closet full of not quite modest clothes, and a couple of guys may have been tempted in the meantime. Really, it's about lost blessings, though, not condemnations.
As far as being out in the world and acting as each others' keepers, I still believe it is more prudent to open our mouths and say something than it is to keep silent. How will pregnant teenagers know there are more options than just abortion or being a single mom if nobody feels it is their "place" to say something? (By the way, the best option is for that teenage girl to put the baby up for adoption, so the mother can get her life back in order and so that baby can have both a mother and a father who want and are ready for it.) How will kids raised on the streets ever become responsible members of society, fulfilled human beings, if nobody tells them they have options? If nobody believes in them enough to even suggest higher education?
I am definitely not saying to be rude about it; I believe the scripture that says contention is of the devil (3 Nephi 11:29). As soon as you start interjecting your own piousness, putting someone down or arguing with them as to why they are wrong, your teaching opportunity is long gone. In the church, teachers receive instruction, the most important of which is to teach by the Spirit. If we have the Spirit with us, guiding us in our discussions, we're a lot more likely to get through to those people we're trying to reach.
In the process of trying to be each others' keepers, I guarantee we will still say the wrong things sometimes. It's okay, we are imperfect beings. It's the intent that counts. If I am ever chastised for something I am not actually doing wrong, I take it at the person's intent. I appreciate their concern for me, and I am glad they are doing their best to do what is right. Most of the time, people only say those things because they care. And if not, well, I am a happier person if I give them the benefit of the doubt.
So are you your brother's keeper?
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Oh, Oh, It's Magic!
When the Harry Potter series first began its rise in popularity, parents across the nation rose up against it, especially Christians, saying schools were teaching their children about cult practices and witchcraft. There are even some parents now who nod their heads in agreement, approving this censure. On the other hand, there are studies that show an increase in literacy across the age spectrum at the same time J.K. Rowling's books came out, directly linking the increase to her books.
This parental revolt is one reason I never went into the teaching profession myself. Censorship is a very delicate issue, and many teachers have gone to bat for literature they felt was worthwhile for every student to read, putting their careers on the line. Unfortunately, parents win more often than teachers, and we lose the only ones who really cared about their subject matter. I for one would absolutely defend reading "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" in my classrooms, if for no other reason than people are being too extreme about it. I read it as a child, and it will be in my home for my children to read.
I know many people today are so scared of offending others, taking "political correctness" to the extreme. It's true that my children will never call a black person a "nigger" if they never read it or hear it, but to ignore the bad parts of our history is to ask that we make the same mistakes again. I guarantee those teachers who supported Huckleberry Finn would have also made it a point to expose their students to how horrible we as humans can be toward one another, for very stupid reasons, too. Not only that, but fear of a word just gives that word more power.
Anyway, getting back to magical literature--I read the Lord of the Rings series in high school. It was one of the best school assignments ever. (And some kids still managed to cheat and ruin things for everyone--our teacher had to give us one on one interviews, asking obscure questions about the texts which we could only answer if we actually read the books and not just the cliff notes.) Those books are also full of magic and epic Good Versus Evil battles to the death. There was not one single curse word or one single sex scene, though.
"Fairy Tales are more than true; not because they tell us dragons exist, but because they tell us dragons can be beaten." This quote, by British author G.K. Chesterton, is one of my absolute favorites about literature. It's a perfect way to say why I love fantasy fiction so much. The hero always wins. Sometimes the reader sees as much character development in the hero, battling personal demons, as they see the character fighting fictional monsters.
Why a fantasy setting? There is something to be said about the perspective gained when a person is taken far out of their normal realm of thinking. (This is also why I am a big advocate for young adults living on their own, away from their hometown.) Put humans thousands of years into the future, add some aliens, monsters, dragons or unicorns, and similar patterns of human behavior still emerge. These are universal truths, no matter the setting. Sometimes it just takes a unique setting to really bring out these human truths.
Looking back on past literature will show us the same things--Shakespeare wrote plays for entertainment, but they also revealed much about human character that is still true today. There will always be love, jealousy, malice, kindness, naivete, sadness and hope in our world. Perhaps we will even notice trends, cyclical behavior reflected in our literature as we look back.
Plus magic is just plain fun. Everyone wishes at one time or another they had more power in their lives. I even had a dream once so vivid, I held my open palm out over my bedroom floor, expecting to levitate one of my books up into it. Imagination is one of the greatest traits of humanity, and its possibilities are what lead us to amazing advances in technology, higher modes of thinking. Many people in my religion believe any inspiration we receive in this world, members of our religion or not, are being inspired by God. Would it also be logical to conclude our very imaginations are a gift from God?
I'm sure the Star Wars films also seemed evil and dark to many parents when they first came out; now seminary teachers use the movies to help teach their students about the Atonement. Unconventional, but sometimes that's what it takes to reach a teenager. J.R.R. Tolkien vehemently swore his books were just stories, not meant as any sort of analogy, but there are gospel parallels in his novels, too. C.S. Lewis' "The Chronicles of Narnia" is absolutely an analogy of Christ's death and rebirth, and yet, to those not prepared to accept the parallels, it is still a great piece of literature.
Now, before I conclude, I would like to speak out against J.K. Rowling's declaration a few years back that Dumbledore, Harry's professor and dean, is gay. That still irks me. Many literature professors have since stated that if Rowling had to make this statement after the fact, and since there is NO evidence in her novels, then she failed as an author. I think she said it as a political move, to appeal to more liberal readers. I side with my literature professors; she failed as an author, and she acted as a sell-out when she made this statement. But I won't throw Harry out with the bath water; it's still a valuable piece of literature, despite the author's own personal failings.
So maybe I have convinced a few of you to try fantasy fiction. If not, at least those who do enjoy it will nod their heads in agreement, feeling even more justified for spending their leisure time with Frodo, Harry and Aslan.
This parental revolt is one reason I never went into the teaching profession myself. Censorship is a very delicate issue, and many teachers have gone to bat for literature they felt was worthwhile for every student to read, putting their careers on the line. Unfortunately, parents win more often than teachers, and we lose the only ones who really cared about their subject matter. I for one would absolutely defend reading "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" in my classrooms, if for no other reason than people are being too extreme about it. I read it as a child, and it will be in my home for my children to read.
I know many people today are so scared of offending others, taking "political correctness" to the extreme. It's true that my children will never call a black person a "nigger" if they never read it or hear it, but to ignore the bad parts of our history is to ask that we make the same mistakes again. I guarantee those teachers who supported Huckleberry Finn would have also made it a point to expose their students to how horrible we as humans can be toward one another, for very stupid reasons, too. Not only that, but fear of a word just gives that word more power.
Anyway, getting back to magical literature--I read the Lord of the Rings series in high school. It was one of the best school assignments ever. (And some kids still managed to cheat and ruin things for everyone--our teacher had to give us one on one interviews, asking obscure questions about the texts which we could only answer if we actually read the books and not just the cliff notes.) Those books are also full of magic and epic Good Versus Evil battles to the death. There was not one single curse word or one single sex scene, though.
"Fairy Tales are more than true; not because they tell us dragons exist, but because they tell us dragons can be beaten." This quote, by British author G.K. Chesterton, is one of my absolute favorites about literature. It's a perfect way to say why I love fantasy fiction so much. The hero always wins. Sometimes the reader sees as much character development in the hero, battling personal demons, as they see the character fighting fictional monsters.
Why a fantasy setting? There is something to be said about the perspective gained when a person is taken far out of their normal realm of thinking. (This is also why I am a big advocate for young adults living on their own, away from their hometown.) Put humans thousands of years into the future, add some aliens, monsters, dragons or unicorns, and similar patterns of human behavior still emerge. These are universal truths, no matter the setting. Sometimes it just takes a unique setting to really bring out these human truths.
Looking back on past literature will show us the same things--Shakespeare wrote plays for entertainment, but they also revealed much about human character that is still true today. There will always be love, jealousy, malice, kindness, naivete, sadness and hope in our world. Perhaps we will even notice trends, cyclical behavior reflected in our literature as we look back.
Plus magic is just plain fun. Everyone wishes at one time or another they had more power in their lives. I even had a dream once so vivid, I held my open palm out over my bedroom floor, expecting to levitate one of my books up into it. Imagination is one of the greatest traits of humanity, and its possibilities are what lead us to amazing advances in technology, higher modes of thinking. Many people in my religion believe any inspiration we receive in this world, members of our religion or not, are being inspired by God. Would it also be logical to conclude our very imaginations are a gift from God?
I'm sure the Star Wars films also seemed evil and dark to many parents when they first came out; now seminary teachers use the movies to help teach their students about the Atonement. Unconventional, but sometimes that's what it takes to reach a teenager. J.R.R. Tolkien vehemently swore his books were just stories, not meant as any sort of analogy, but there are gospel parallels in his novels, too. C.S. Lewis' "The Chronicles of Narnia" is absolutely an analogy of Christ's death and rebirth, and yet, to those not prepared to accept the parallels, it is still a great piece of literature.
Now, before I conclude, I would like to speak out against J.K. Rowling's declaration a few years back that Dumbledore, Harry's professor and dean, is gay. That still irks me. Many literature professors have since stated that if Rowling had to make this statement after the fact, and since there is NO evidence in her novels, then she failed as an author. I think she said it as a political move, to appeal to more liberal readers. I side with my literature professors; she failed as an author, and she acted as a sell-out when she made this statement. But I won't throw Harry out with the bath water; it's still a valuable piece of literature, despite the author's own personal failings.
So maybe I have convinced a few of you to try fantasy fiction. If not, at least those who do enjoy it will nod their heads in agreement, feeling even more justified for spending their leisure time with Frodo, Harry and Aslan.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Complacency
I have never considered myself a complacent person, nor would anyone who met me. But I never realized just how rare my particular brand of drive is in this world. I meet people from all over, even in my own neighborhood, who are perfectly fine doing what their parents did for work, living in the same town, never making waves, never seeing their names in print, other than a local paper printing their obituary. And who reads the paper when they're dead?
Sometimes these people even move in to their parents' old house. Back in the day, this was common. The oldest male of the household would take over the homestead, once the father was unable to carry out his duties. Back then, it made sense to do things this way. Today there isn't much of a need to stay in one place for generations and generations. Yet time and again, especially the people I have conversed with who are from the southern States, I see this complacency. There is no desire to move somewhere new, explore the world around them, achieve things. I do not understand this mentality; it is foreign to me.
Those not from the south would call it a stereotypical southern laziness, but there are lazy people from every type of culture. I see people from the south as being complacent, with a passive disinterest in higher pursuits. They like things as they are and don't do much to change them. My opinions could very well change over time, if I meet more people from the south and get a larger pool from which to sample. For now, though, that is what I think of southerners.
I'm also coming to realize there isn't necessarily anything wrong with this way of life. We can't all be leaders--sometimes it takes just as strong a person to follow as to lead. Every country has commonfolk, a middle class, and in this mortal realm it just makes sense. The working class is the backbone of a country, performing necessary labors that benefit the entire population. One should never mock the purity of a good old-fashioned day of hard labor. Farming, for example, is much more honest work than politics and the machinations of men in their ivory towers.
I like to talk with complacent people to understand what makes them tick, not to criticize or judge. It is fascinating for me to talk with those who do not spend their lives achieving, striving for something greater. Perhaps a better term to use is "enduring;" I like discussions with those who do their duties and endure. We can all learn something from each other, and perhaps us overachievers can learn to slow down and appreciate where we are in life, at this very moment, from our more complacent friends. Maybe I do understand their view of life.
But I don't think I could ever live that way for long. There is much too much to see in this world, sights, sounds, tastes and smells to discover--if I can't travel the world, I want to at least talk to people from all over. That's one reason I love books so much--I can't possibly know what it was like to be a black girl in the 1940s, but I can read a firsthand account of one. Literature is one of the best ways to get into the mind of someone else, a person, a lifestyle, a way of thinking you could never even begin to imagine because it is so far outside your own realm of thinking.
People who live without passion are also people I don't quite understand. Then again, when I really get to know a person, I have yet to meet someone who didn't have at least some small spark of passion inside. It might not be the raging inferno I have, but it's still there.
The more I talk with and learn about people, the more I learn about myself, stereotypes, and the world. Stereotypes do have a basis in fact, but that doesn't mean they have to be bad. In the end, less driven people means less competition for me :)
Sometimes these people even move in to their parents' old house. Back in the day, this was common. The oldest male of the household would take over the homestead, once the father was unable to carry out his duties. Back then, it made sense to do things this way. Today there isn't much of a need to stay in one place for generations and generations. Yet time and again, especially the people I have conversed with who are from the southern States, I see this complacency. There is no desire to move somewhere new, explore the world around them, achieve things. I do not understand this mentality; it is foreign to me.
Those not from the south would call it a stereotypical southern laziness, but there are lazy people from every type of culture. I see people from the south as being complacent, with a passive disinterest in higher pursuits. They like things as they are and don't do much to change them. My opinions could very well change over time, if I meet more people from the south and get a larger pool from which to sample. For now, though, that is what I think of southerners.
I'm also coming to realize there isn't necessarily anything wrong with this way of life. We can't all be leaders--sometimes it takes just as strong a person to follow as to lead. Every country has commonfolk, a middle class, and in this mortal realm it just makes sense. The working class is the backbone of a country, performing necessary labors that benefit the entire population. One should never mock the purity of a good old-fashioned day of hard labor. Farming, for example, is much more honest work than politics and the machinations of men in their ivory towers.
I like to talk with complacent people to understand what makes them tick, not to criticize or judge. It is fascinating for me to talk with those who do not spend their lives achieving, striving for something greater. Perhaps a better term to use is "enduring;" I like discussions with those who do their duties and endure. We can all learn something from each other, and perhaps us overachievers can learn to slow down and appreciate where we are in life, at this very moment, from our more complacent friends. Maybe I do understand their view of life.
But I don't think I could ever live that way for long. There is much too much to see in this world, sights, sounds, tastes and smells to discover--if I can't travel the world, I want to at least talk to people from all over. That's one reason I love books so much--I can't possibly know what it was like to be a black girl in the 1940s, but I can read a firsthand account of one. Literature is one of the best ways to get into the mind of someone else, a person, a lifestyle, a way of thinking you could never even begin to imagine because it is so far outside your own realm of thinking.
People who live without passion are also people I don't quite understand. Then again, when I really get to know a person, I have yet to meet someone who didn't have at least some small spark of passion inside. It might not be the raging inferno I have, but it's still there.
The more I talk with and learn about people, the more I learn about myself, stereotypes, and the world. Stereotypes do have a basis in fact, but that doesn't mean they have to be bad. In the end, less driven people means less competition for me :)
Monday, January 17, 2011
Coming Unhinged
My jaw popped out of its socket a few nights ago, and it has yet to go back to its proper place. When I was a teenager my jaw would pop out all the time, usually when I was brushing my teeth, but then it would go back in a minute or two later. Well, it's been three days, and my jaw is still out for the count. It's one of those things where you don't realize how important its proper function is in your life until it's broken.
I have never broken a bone in my life, but I have sprained an ankle and had a scratched eye once when I was little. Our lovely pet rabbit Smoky decided he didn't want to be held anymore and leaped out of my arms in a hurry. Animals do that sometimes--they flail, with no regard for what their limbs may hit (much like a screaming toddler...). I was a pretty small kid, and the rabbit had to be at least fifteen pounds.
The end result: I had to take a trip to the emergency room and have doctors examine my eye. They all said I was very lucky my head turned at the last minute, or I could very well have been blind in that eye. As it was, I had to use eye drops for several weeks until the scratch on my sclera healed. I think I had to wear an eye patch too, but I can't remember for sure.
At any rate, being unable to use a limb or body part for any amount of time when you're used to using it is hard. With my dislocated jaw, I can't eat a lot of foods--anything that requires the incisors to line up to take a bite, and anything hard like carrots or fresh apples is out of the question. Then, since my molars don't line up, it takes extra long to mash up any other food like bread or cereal, and it tastes gross from being in my mouth extra long.
It's the same sensation when us glasses-wearing folk misplace our glasses for any amount of time. You are blind and pretty much helpless, and you can't do anything else until those glasses are found. I wish I had better vision, but I am at least grateful to those minds who contributed to the modern eyeglasses design.
Having a car break down is also very inconvenient. It requires a mental shift as you have to figure out a new way around town while the car is in the shop. Whereas before bus schedules didn't matter, now you have to have the correct change for bus fare, make sure the weather is decent or bring an umbrella for walking to and from the stop, and account for the extra weight you have to lug around if you made that bus trip a shopping trip as well. Life is just all around harder without proper functioning cars or bodies.
Then again, it's only harder because we had the luxury in the first place. Lots of people don't have cars, in foreign countries, and many people in the world are permanently disfigured. For them, what we consider an inconvenience is a way of life. We find it bothersome if we have to make an extra trip to the grocery store for milk, maybe 20 minutes out of our day; their trip to market might take an entire day or two.
So while my jaw is unhinged, I at least have some foods I can still eat. Ice cream is plenty soft :)
I have never broken a bone in my life, but I have sprained an ankle and had a scratched eye once when I was little. Our lovely pet rabbit Smoky decided he didn't want to be held anymore and leaped out of my arms in a hurry. Animals do that sometimes--they flail, with no regard for what their limbs may hit (much like a screaming toddler...). I was a pretty small kid, and the rabbit had to be at least fifteen pounds.
The end result: I had to take a trip to the emergency room and have doctors examine my eye. They all said I was very lucky my head turned at the last minute, or I could very well have been blind in that eye. As it was, I had to use eye drops for several weeks until the scratch on my sclera healed. I think I had to wear an eye patch too, but I can't remember for sure.
At any rate, being unable to use a limb or body part for any amount of time when you're used to using it is hard. With my dislocated jaw, I can't eat a lot of foods--anything that requires the incisors to line up to take a bite, and anything hard like carrots or fresh apples is out of the question. Then, since my molars don't line up, it takes extra long to mash up any other food like bread or cereal, and it tastes gross from being in my mouth extra long.
It's the same sensation when us glasses-wearing folk misplace our glasses for any amount of time. You are blind and pretty much helpless, and you can't do anything else until those glasses are found. I wish I had better vision, but I am at least grateful to those minds who contributed to the modern eyeglasses design.
Having a car break down is also very inconvenient. It requires a mental shift as you have to figure out a new way around town while the car is in the shop. Whereas before bus schedules didn't matter, now you have to have the correct change for bus fare, make sure the weather is decent or bring an umbrella for walking to and from the stop, and account for the extra weight you have to lug around if you made that bus trip a shopping trip as well. Life is just all around harder without proper functioning cars or bodies.
Then again, it's only harder because we had the luxury in the first place. Lots of people don't have cars, in foreign countries, and many people in the world are permanently disfigured. For them, what we consider an inconvenience is a way of life. We find it bothersome if we have to make an extra trip to the grocery store for milk, maybe 20 minutes out of our day; their trip to market might take an entire day or two.
So while my jaw is unhinged, I at least have some foods I can still eat. Ice cream is plenty soft :)
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Fishy Fishie!
I bought my son a fish today. Granted, he's not remotely close to an age where he could be responsible for a pet, but it's shiny and moves around a lot. Those things he can appreciate now. Plus I miss having another living thing to care for. Lots of people don't like pets, because they are a lot of work and expensive. It really depends on the pet, but overall I think the work is worth it. Living things make me happy--it's also why I buy "lucky" bamboo for my apartment. I need something green to look at during these long, grey winter months.
During my childhood years, we had many pets. It all started when a family in the ward bought their little boys a rabbit for Christmas. What the pet store didn't tell them (and genuinely might not have known) is that this rabbit was pregnant. Soon after, the family had a whole litter of little bunnies hopping around. Naturally, they gave one to us. He was a patchy brown color mixed with grey and a light spot on his nose. My sister and I gave him the sophisticated name of "Smoky." He was one of the biggest breeds around, and taught me a few things about life.
Not too long after we got Smoky, my mom decided to buy a rabbit for her parents. She bought them a little dwarf bunny named Peanut. But my grandmother wanted nothing to do with it. Instead, Peanut came to live with us. We kept her in a separate cage; that didn't deter Smoky for long. We came out to the backyard one morning to discover Smoky had knocked over his cage, escaped, hopped to the other end of the patio, knocked over Peanut's cage, and then he helped her escape as well. My parents never had to explain "the birds and the bees" to me after that.
Shortly after that we were inundated with bunnies and everything that means. We even had a small warren on the side of the house, dug by Smoky and family. Sometimes my sister and I helped excavate new dens for the rabbits, or we would just dig random holes in the yard for fun. I guess we thought we were part rabbit too or something.
One summer day we decided to make our biggest hole yet--our goal was to make it big enough for all three of us (a neighbor kid included) to swim around in, after we filled it up with hose water. We didn't get far. The hole was maybe one foot across and a foot and a half deep before we lost interest. After that it became the hole where we dumped all the rabbit poop. I really can't follow the line of reasoning there; we were kids, what can I say? But until our dad landscaped the backyard, that particular patch of grass was the greenest patch I have ever seen.
After the rabbits, some kittens found us. My mom was in the garage, cleaning, when she heard some mewing. She pulled some boxes out and discovered a whole litter of kittens. The mother cat freaked out and ran away, never to return. My mother is a very compassionate person, so despite our cat allergies, we bottle-fed these tiny felines. My sister and I came up with some very creative names: Snowflake, Siren, Blackie, Vanilla, and Mushroom. Some ran away, others were adopted by friends, and I'm not sure what happened to the rest.
Since the rabbits and cats, we have had two cockatiels, a goldfish that lived for nine years (get this: his name was Swimmy), a couple hamsters and a guinea pig named Cappy. This was short for capybara, since guinea pigs look like miniature versions of their large cousins. We never had any reptiles, insects or dogs for pets, though, except for Rascal, but he was adopted after I had moved out.
During all this pet ownership, my sister and I had to care for these pets, feeding them, making sure they had enough water and clean cages. It taught us to care for something other than ourselves, and that hard work is worth it. Cleaning cages is gross, but if it means I get to pet my soft bunny and watch him hop around longer--see him enjoy his life--I will do it. I also can't eat my own food now without first checking my pet's food level.
So now I am continuing the pet ownership tradition. Since living on my own I have had three betta fish, one guinea pig, and now one goldfish. The betta died, as most do after two or three years, and I had to give the guinea pig away (his name was Piggie--this actually IS creative, since Piggie was short for "Jabba the Pig"). Eventually I would like to have a dog of my own, a Shiba Inu or a Siberian Husky, but for now I will settle for a pretty, active fish.
During my childhood years, we had many pets. It all started when a family in the ward bought their little boys a rabbit for Christmas. What the pet store didn't tell them (and genuinely might not have known) is that this rabbit was pregnant. Soon after, the family had a whole litter of little bunnies hopping around. Naturally, they gave one to us. He was a patchy brown color mixed with grey and a light spot on his nose. My sister and I gave him the sophisticated name of "Smoky." He was one of the biggest breeds around, and taught me a few things about life.
Not too long after we got Smoky, my mom decided to buy a rabbit for her parents. She bought them a little dwarf bunny named Peanut. But my grandmother wanted nothing to do with it. Instead, Peanut came to live with us. We kept her in a separate cage; that didn't deter Smoky for long. We came out to the backyard one morning to discover Smoky had knocked over his cage, escaped, hopped to the other end of the patio, knocked over Peanut's cage, and then he helped her escape as well. My parents never had to explain "the birds and the bees" to me after that.
Shortly after that we were inundated with bunnies and everything that means. We even had a small warren on the side of the house, dug by Smoky and family. Sometimes my sister and I helped excavate new dens for the rabbits, or we would just dig random holes in the yard for fun. I guess we thought we were part rabbit too or something.
One summer day we decided to make our biggest hole yet--our goal was to make it big enough for all three of us (a neighbor kid included) to swim around in, after we filled it up with hose water. We didn't get far. The hole was maybe one foot across and a foot and a half deep before we lost interest. After that it became the hole where we dumped all the rabbit poop. I really can't follow the line of reasoning there; we were kids, what can I say? But until our dad landscaped the backyard, that particular patch of grass was the greenest patch I have ever seen.
After the rabbits, some kittens found us. My mom was in the garage, cleaning, when she heard some mewing. She pulled some boxes out and discovered a whole litter of kittens. The mother cat freaked out and ran away, never to return. My mother is a very compassionate person, so despite our cat allergies, we bottle-fed these tiny felines. My sister and I came up with some very creative names: Snowflake, Siren, Blackie, Vanilla, and Mushroom. Some ran away, others were adopted by friends, and I'm not sure what happened to the rest.
Since the rabbits and cats, we have had two cockatiels, a goldfish that lived for nine years (get this: his name was Swimmy), a couple hamsters and a guinea pig named Cappy. This was short for capybara, since guinea pigs look like miniature versions of their large cousins. We never had any reptiles, insects or dogs for pets, though, except for Rascal, but he was adopted after I had moved out.
During all this pet ownership, my sister and I had to care for these pets, feeding them, making sure they had enough water and clean cages. It taught us to care for something other than ourselves, and that hard work is worth it. Cleaning cages is gross, but if it means I get to pet my soft bunny and watch him hop around longer--see him enjoy his life--I will do it. I also can't eat my own food now without first checking my pet's food level.
So now I am continuing the pet ownership tradition. Since living on my own I have had three betta fish, one guinea pig, and now one goldfish. The betta died, as most do after two or three years, and I had to give the guinea pig away (his name was Piggie--this actually IS creative, since Piggie was short for "Jabba the Pig"). Eventually I would like to have a dog of my own, a Shiba Inu or a Siberian Husky, but for now I will settle for a pretty, active fish.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Bacon
I swear I'm not really all that into food, it just so happens that when I ask people what I should blog about, they keep suggesting various types of food. Maybe I should stop asking them right around meal times... Bacon in particular is interesting because it has somehow become a meme, with bacon mints, bacon shirts, bacon artillery (not a means of launching the tasty breakfast meat--an actual gun-shaped bacon artifact) and even a bacon plushie hitting the market. One comedian did an entire segment in his sketch all about bacon, including how we use bacon to improve other foods. Even a commercial reflected our collective desire to take all the bacon at those hotel breakfast buffets.
We all know bacon isn't a very healthy food. True, it has protein, and a little fat in our diet is fine, but bacon has way more than "a little." This is why we like eating it. From all the hype I'd say bacon has come to represent gluttony in general, how we wish we could indulge in every physical desire that comes our way. Oddly, society has built in some of its own restraints. Why don't we take all the bacon at a buffet, or only eat it for an entire meal? Society makes us feel guilty for being that indulgent, yet it is still okay to acknowledge how much we would like to do it. We collectively laugh at our glut, at the same time knowing we would never actually follow through with it because, again, of restraints society places on itself. Not to mention there IS such a thing as too much of a good thing.
My maternal grandparents loved the traditional American breakfast, complete with eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, hash browns, toast and coffee (they weren't members--but we did manage to get our grandpa to stop smoking :). They really didn't take very good care of their health, though, and both developed type 2 diabetes in their sixties. My mom would try to convince them to change their eating habits, but to no avail. My grandma would claim she didn't want to live to be a hundred if it meant not being able to enjoy what she ate. Keep in mind when my grandparents formed their adult eating habits--in the forties and fifties nobody had even heard of heart disease, much less diabetes or lung cancer from smoking.
My husband also loves the American breakfast, but he has the metabolism of a sixteen-year-old boy. Seriously, he wears the same size pants as when he was a freshman in high school, over ten years ago. (Some say that will catch up with him eventually, but I have my doubts. A few lucky souls never have to worry about their weight their entire lives.)
There are ways to make the "American breakfast" more healthy, especially now. Some health-conscious cooks discovered that applesauce can make a great substitute for oil; whole wheat pancakes are more nutritious; sauces other than sugary maple syrup can be used; there are also healthier ways to cook the eggs in this kind of breakfast. Ironically, turkey bacon is not healthier than regular pork bacon. In this case the only way to make it healthy is to eat less of it.
My mom kept the metal tongs her mother used to use when cooking bacon, and whenever she uses them, my mom thinks of her. One recipe in particular comes to mind that my grandma used to make--bacon mixed in a pan with canned string beans and stewed tomatoes. (Yet another example of how we use bacon to make other food better!) Since then my own mom has introduced me to a "fancy" salad that also uses bacon--how else can you make broccoli taste good?
Oddly enough, I hate cooking bacon. My husband is the bacon fryer in our family--he doesn't seem to mind having that hot grease spit at his bare arms. If I don't plan well, however, and I have to cook bacon when my husband isn't around, I will wear long sleeves and oven mitts. And forget about asking me to make scones!
As tasty as it is, I really think all this bacon hype is from the hype itself. People keep adding to the bacon-worship because it's funny, much like Chuck Norris jokes. Sorry, but Chuck Norris can't really e-mail a roundhouse kick and he doesn't have a fist behind his beard in place of a chin. Maybe if he ate some bacon...
We all know bacon isn't a very healthy food. True, it has protein, and a little fat in our diet is fine, but bacon has way more than "a little." This is why we like eating it. From all the hype I'd say bacon has come to represent gluttony in general, how we wish we could indulge in every physical desire that comes our way. Oddly, society has built in some of its own restraints. Why don't we take all the bacon at a buffet, or only eat it for an entire meal? Society makes us feel guilty for being that indulgent, yet it is still okay to acknowledge how much we would like to do it. We collectively laugh at our glut, at the same time knowing we would never actually follow through with it because, again, of restraints society places on itself. Not to mention there IS such a thing as too much of a good thing.
My maternal grandparents loved the traditional American breakfast, complete with eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, hash browns, toast and coffee (they weren't members--but we did manage to get our grandpa to stop smoking :). They really didn't take very good care of their health, though, and both developed type 2 diabetes in their sixties. My mom would try to convince them to change their eating habits, but to no avail. My grandma would claim she didn't want to live to be a hundred if it meant not being able to enjoy what she ate. Keep in mind when my grandparents formed their adult eating habits--in the forties and fifties nobody had even heard of heart disease, much less diabetes or lung cancer from smoking.
My husband also loves the American breakfast, but he has the metabolism of a sixteen-year-old boy. Seriously, he wears the same size pants as when he was a freshman in high school, over ten years ago. (Some say that will catch up with him eventually, but I have my doubts. A few lucky souls never have to worry about their weight their entire lives.)
There are ways to make the "American breakfast" more healthy, especially now. Some health-conscious cooks discovered that applesauce can make a great substitute for oil; whole wheat pancakes are more nutritious; sauces other than sugary maple syrup can be used; there are also healthier ways to cook the eggs in this kind of breakfast. Ironically, turkey bacon is not healthier than regular pork bacon. In this case the only way to make it healthy is to eat less of it.
My mom kept the metal tongs her mother used to use when cooking bacon, and whenever she uses them, my mom thinks of her. One recipe in particular comes to mind that my grandma used to make--bacon mixed in a pan with canned string beans and stewed tomatoes. (Yet another example of how we use bacon to make other food better!) Since then my own mom has introduced me to a "fancy" salad that also uses bacon--how else can you make broccoli taste good?
Oddly enough, I hate cooking bacon. My husband is the bacon fryer in our family--he doesn't seem to mind having that hot grease spit at his bare arms. If I don't plan well, however, and I have to cook bacon when my husband isn't around, I will wear long sleeves and oven mitts. And forget about asking me to make scones!
As tasty as it is, I really think all this bacon hype is from the hype itself. People keep adding to the bacon-worship because it's funny, much like Chuck Norris jokes. Sorry, but Chuck Norris can't really e-mail a roundhouse kick and he doesn't have a fist behind his beard in place of a chin. Maybe if he ate some bacon...
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Lasagna
It was a famous comic strip cat's favorite food and is a staple of Italian cooking. For me, it's a way to remember my sister. She taught me the original recipe, which our former babysitter taught to her, and I don't know where the recipe came from before that. At any rate, it's a basic meal that I have adapted over the years, adding new ingredients here, altering proportions there. But I still remember her showing and explaining to me how to make this simple dish.
When I was younger I had a hard time with the idea women are supposed to stay at home all day, doing the cooking and cleaning. Then, once I went away to college, it occurred to me that these skills would be good to have regardless of whether or not I ever got married. Everyone should know how to cook for themselves, male or female. It helps not to think of it as "homemaking," but rather as "life skills." Some people may read this and shake their heads, thinking my distinction silly, but it really works for me. Sometimes changing the mental label is all it takes.
I remember being somewhat resentful of my parents when I was younger, telling me I could not see rated R films, that I was not "allowed" to do so. Then one day it occurred to me I really didn't want to see those types of films anyway. It was not my parents voice in my head--I genuinely had no personal desire to see them. That's also when I realized I didn't have to tell my friends, "No, I can't see that movie, my parents won't let me." (This excuse sounded really lame to me--I could imagine what my friends were thinking if I thought it was lame.) Instead, I would tell them, "No, I don't want to see that film. Oh, but how about [insert cool new PG-13 film title here]?" I'm still not watching those types of movies, but the distinction is what made the difference.
I also came across an old Valentine's day card from my sister today. Our family had the tradition to make each other Valentine's cards, ones where we actually had to write specific things we loved about each other. When we first started this tradition, my sister and I would write the minimal amount of nice on each card. The cards would read something like, "I love you because you're my sister," which doesn't actually give any real reason why we loved each other, but hey, we were like, eleven and thirteen. As the years went by, our cards became more sincere, with sentiments like, "I love you because you sing well," or "I love you because you're my best friend."
Well, I love my sister because of everything she taught me or tried to teach me when she was still here. It's hard though, sometimes, because I remember bits and pieces of advice she gave and try to apply it to my current situation, as if she were here and able to help. Most of the time it works, but sometimes, like with the lasagna recipe, I have to make small changes or adaptations to better fit my life. I think they are still things she would say, though. I can't know for sure it's exactly something she would say, but I like to believe I know her well enough to imagine fairly accurately what she would say.
I still feel her influence in my life, and I still miss having her actually here. I often wonder how I could help her living friends and family--not that I could ever fill her role, I don't think I'm meant to--and I do wonder what God was thinking. Not with anger, more concern and curiosity. At this point I just have to have faith that we will all be okay without her, since God must have thought we didn't need her anymore when He took her from this life. Then again, with everyone who knew her remembering her, doing or saying things the way she would, in a way she is still here.
Perhaps that is why some people pass down family recipes, as another way of remembering loved ones. It's a way to let the deceased participate in the current generation (even if it isn't their exact original recipe or if they just got it from someone else). Apparently, in my family one of my grandmothers made the most delicious pecan pies, and everyone would wonder how she came up with such a good recipe. In reality, she had learned it off the back of a Karo syrup bottle! Even then, this story is as memorable as the pies, just like my sister's life story is as memorable as her recipe.
When I was younger I had a hard time with the idea women are supposed to stay at home all day, doing the cooking and cleaning. Then, once I went away to college, it occurred to me that these skills would be good to have regardless of whether or not I ever got married. Everyone should know how to cook for themselves, male or female. It helps not to think of it as "homemaking," but rather as "life skills." Some people may read this and shake their heads, thinking my distinction silly, but it really works for me. Sometimes changing the mental label is all it takes.
I remember being somewhat resentful of my parents when I was younger, telling me I could not see rated R films, that I was not "allowed" to do so. Then one day it occurred to me I really didn't want to see those types of films anyway. It was not my parents voice in my head--I genuinely had no personal desire to see them. That's also when I realized I didn't have to tell my friends, "No, I can't see that movie, my parents won't let me." (This excuse sounded really lame to me--I could imagine what my friends were thinking if I thought it was lame.) Instead, I would tell them, "No, I don't want to see that film. Oh, but how about [insert cool new PG-13 film title here]?" I'm still not watching those types of movies, but the distinction is what made the difference.
I also came across an old Valentine's day card from my sister today. Our family had the tradition to make each other Valentine's cards, ones where we actually had to write specific things we loved about each other. When we first started this tradition, my sister and I would write the minimal amount of nice on each card. The cards would read something like, "I love you because you're my sister," which doesn't actually give any real reason why we loved each other, but hey, we were like, eleven and thirteen. As the years went by, our cards became more sincere, with sentiments like, "I love you because you sing well," or "I love you because you're my best friend."
Well, I love my sister because of everything she taught me or tried to teach me when she was still here. It's hard though, sometimes, because I remember bits and pieces of advice she gave and try to apply it to my current situation, as if she were here and able to help. Most of the time it works, but sometimes, like with the lasagna recipe, I have to make small changes or adaptations to better fit my life. I think they are still things she would say, though. I can't know for sure it's exactly something she would say, but I like to believe I know her well enough to imagine fairly accurately what she would say.
I still feel her influence in my life, and I still miss having her actually here. I often wonder how I could help her living friends and family--not that I could ever fill her role, I don't think I'm meant to--and I do wonder what God was thinking. Not with anger, more concern and curiosity. At this point I just have to have faith that we will all be okay without her, since God must have thought we didn't need her anymore when He took her from this life. Then again, with everyone who knew her remembering her, doing or saying things the way she would, in a way she is still here.
Perhaps that is why some people pass down family recipes, as another way of remembering loved ones. It's a way to let the deceased participate in the current generation (even if it isn't their exact original recipe or if they just got it from someone else). Apparently, in my family one of my grandmothers made the most delicious pecan pies, and everyone would wonder how she came up with such a good recipe. In reality, she had learned it off the back of a Karo syrup bottle! Even then, this story is as memorable as the pies, just like my sister's life story is as memorable as her recipe.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Church Callings
This is probably the aspect of my life most people take for granted. I could be wrong, but I'm not aware of another religion that has its bishops, or preachers, work for free in addition to their regular career. It's also one of the few religions where a person does not typically stay in a given position permanently. The way I was taught that church callings work is everything is a lateral move. Someone called to be bishop or Relief Society president is no better than a Sunbeams primary teacher or Sunday School chorister. The only real difference is the level of responsibility (and trust me, some Relief Society presidents are relieved when they are called as the building coordinator instead).
Still, I think it's a really great way to run a religious organization--everyone has a calling, a responsibility in the ward family to fulfill. Not only does everyone get a chance to pitch in and feel needed, it's a great way to cut down on costs. We used to hire janitors to clean our church buildings--not anymore. Ward members are expected to volunteer a couple hours a month to clean the building. Really, it just makes sense. We tend to treat things with more respect once we put the time into actually caring for it ourselves. Also, with people switching callings, it gives lifetime members a chance to work with and mingle with members whom they might not otherwise interact.
The church youth tend to get an edge on leadership training as well. Most wards are small enough that everyone in the teenage classes gets a calling, whether as president, counselor or secretary. These callings give the youth a chance to be trusted with a decent amount of responsibility and insight into how most organizations operate (or how they can fall apart!) More importantly, the youth are given a chance to pray for and receive guidance on situations happening right in the moment.
Each group of youth has a president called--for the Young Women, there are Beehive, Mia Maid, and Laurel presidents; for Young Men, Deacons and Teachers have a president as well (the bishop is the Priest president). These presidents are then asked to submit names of their fellow classmates for the counselor and secretary positions. That's right--a thirteen-year-old boy is supposed to pray about and choose from his classmates to find counselors and a secretary. And guess what: they almost always rise to the occasion. What an awesome experience!
During my religious "career," I have served as a class president in Young Women's; I have been on the board to plan and execute Youth Conferences; I have served on a ward Activities committees (which they are now doing away with); I have taught Relief Society and Young Women's classes; I have conducted the music during sacrament meetings; I have led the music in nursery; and I have been a counselor in a Relief Society presidency. I have never refused a calling (I'm sure there are a few I have forgotten), but I have had an offer rescinded once the bishop realized how hard a time I was having just working up the guts to answer. And the best callings were the ones where I gave the most of myself, or, in church terms, I magnified my calling.
Now, about the rescinded calling--I had been asked to work in one of the college newlywed ward nurseries. This was before I had my little boy, and before him, I absolutely hated working with babies. (To be honest, I'm still not a big fan of other people's children, but I am much less anxious around them and can now handle caring for young children for short periods of time.) I had no idea where anyone got the impression that putting me in a room full of toddlers for two hours every Sunday was a good idea--I had never indicated any liking for very young children. I wasn't one of the women constantly cooing over all the babies in sacrament meeting, or one of the women who helped the new mothers in Sunday School or Relief Society. But I had also never turned down a calling.
A couple weeks passed without me giving a definite answer, so my bishop at the time called me in to his office for a chat. He could sense how hard this was for me, and that's when he rescinded the calling. He said that in this ward, he could pull a name out of a hat for any position, and the ward would be just fine. I'm not sure if that meant they really hadn't thought very hard before asking me, or if it was merely to reassure me they would easily be able to find someone else to work in the nursery. Whatever the reason, I felt tremendous relief. But the Lord wasn't going to let me off that easily. I am now the Primary chorister, which, in our ward, means the Nursery chorister.
That's right. I sing to toddlers every Sunday now. I'm sure it's great for my little boy to have me there, but honestly, I don't know why people think it's a good idea to call parents as Primary and Nursery leaders. I LIKE getting a two hour break from my little one once a week--I'm with him every day, all day for six days of the week. We both need a break from each other! Anyway, I'm only required to be in the nursery room for ten minutes each Sunday, just long enough to sing with the children and break up the time they are in there. However, I usually end up staying for about an hour, if not longer.
At least making the props for the little ones was fun. Since they're so young, their musical experience consists more of listening and waving or shaking things. I found some shakers and mini tambourines at the local dollar store, redecorated them with Jesus stickers, and I just have them shake to the rhythm of various Primary songs. I can at least see the calming effect music has as I play reverent songs at the end of the ten minutes. It is possible to calm down a bunch of energetic toddlers by playing familiar, soothing melodies. So, all in all, not the worst calling I've ever had, maybe just a little boring.
Still, I think it's a really great way to run a religious organization--everyone has a calling, a responsibility in the ward family to fulfill. Not only does everyone get a chance to pitch in and feel needed, it's a great way to cut down on costs. We used to hire janitors to clean our church buildings--not anymore. Ward members are expected to volunteer a couple hours a month to clean the building. Really, it just makes sense. We tend to treat things with more respect once we put the time into actually caring for it ourselves. Also, with people switching callings, it gives lifetime members a chance to work with and mingle with members whom they might not otherwise interact.
The church youth tend to get an edge on leadership training as well. Most wards are small enough that everyone in the teenage classes gets a calling, whether as president, counselor or secretary. These callings give the youth a chance to be trusted with a decent amount of responsibility and insight into how most organizations operate (or how they can fall apart!) More importantly, the youth are given a chance to pray for and receive guidance on situations happening right in the moment.
Each group of youth has a president called--for the Young Women, there are Beehive, Mia Maid, and Laurel presidents; for Young Men, Deacons and Teachers have a president as well (the bishop is the Priest president). These presidents are then asked to submit names of their fellow classmates for the counselor and secretary positions. That's right--a thirteen-year-old boy is supposed to pray about and choose from his classmates to find counselors and a secretary. And guess what: they almost always rise to the occasion. What an awesome experience!
During my religious "career," I have served as a class president in Young Women's; I have been on the board to plan and execute Youth Conferences; I have served on a ward Activities committees (which they are now doing away with); I have taught Relief Society and Young Women's classes; I have conducted the music during sacrament meetings; I have led the music in nursery; and I have been a counselor in a Relief Society presidency. I have never refused a calling (I'm sure there are a few I have forgotten), but I have had an offer rescinded once the bishop realized how hard a time I was having just working up the guts to answer. And the best callings were the ones where I gave the most of myself, or, in church terms, I magnified my calling.
Now, about the rescinded calling--I had been asked to work in one of the college newlywed ward nurseries. This was before I had my little boy, and before him, I absolutely hated working with babies. (To be honest, I'm still not a big fan of other people's children, but I am much less anxious around them and can now handle caring for young children for short periods of time.) I had no idea where anyone got the impression that putting me in a room full of toddlers for two hours every Sunday was a good idea--I had never indicated any liking for very young children. I wasn't one of the women constantly cooing over all the babies in sacrament meeting, or one of the women who helped the new mothers in Sunday School or Relief Society. But I had also never turned down a calling.
A couple weeks passed without me giving a definite answer, so my bishop at the time called me in to his office for a chat. He could sense how hard this was for me, and that's when he rescinded the calling. He said that in this ward, he could pull a name out of a hat for any position, and the ward would be just fine. I'm not sure if that meant they really hadn't thought very hard before asking me, or if it was merely to reassure me they would easily be able to find someone else to work in the nursery. Whatever the reason, I felt tremendous relief. But the Lord wasn't going to let me off that easily. I am now the Primary chorister, which, in our ward, means the Nursery chorister.
That's right. I sing to toddlers every Sunday now. I'm sure it's great for my little boy to have me there, but honestly, I don't know why people think it's a good idea to call parents as Primary and Nursery leaders. I LIKE getting a two hour break from my little one once a week--I'm with him every day, all day for six days of the week. We both need a break from each other! Anyway, I'm only required to be in the nursery room for ten minutes each Sunday, just long enough to sing with the children and break up the time they are in there. However, I usually end up staying for about an hour, if not longer.
At least making the props for the little ones was fun. Since they're so young, their musical experience consists more of listening and waving or shaking things. I found some shakers and mini tambourines at the local dollar store, redecorated them with Jesus stickers, and I just have them shake to the rhythm of various Primary songs. I can at least see the calming effect music has as I play reverent songs at the end of the ten minutes. It is possible to calm down a bunch of energetic toddlers by playing familiar, soothing melodies. So, all in all, not the worst calling I've ever had, maybe just a little boring.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Virtual Reality
I had a dream last night involving a plot to take over the world, and I was powerless to stop it. My loving husband's comment was, "Oh, they've already done that. The movie's called 'Surrogates.'" I think this dream was based loosely on the movie "Inception," with influences from the movie "Wall-E" and the various detective/spy television shows I often watch.
In my dream, I found myself wandering a virtual world, familiar spaces mashed together in impossible ways, like various malls I've visited attached to Disneyland, city parks, and zoos. I've visited quite a few zoos. The whole place was jam-packed with people, all enjoying some exciting experience or other, whether whooshing down roller coasters, shopping for luxury virtual items at rock-bottom prices, getting massages, or eating exotic virtual foods.
As each new experience occurred, I could see the names and prices of each event hovering in the air next to the participant, appearing as misty white numbers as they purchased their new "apps," fading after a few seconds. That way anyone watching another participant, or "guest," could know how to look up the app for themselves or how much their account would be charged for that experience. It was difficult to see the crowd through the misty numbers constantly appearing in midair, but there was still plenty of noise.
I was excited when I first arrived. The numbers were distracting, but the attractions quickly drew my attention, suppressing my urge to calculate how much money was left in my bank account. Little did I realize, and little did most of the participants there realize that once your checking accounts were emptied, Jobs had a line of credit available for each guest to utilize. And each credit account had no limit. Each "guest" would keep trying and adding new applications to their original virtual reality experience, never realizing they were getting deeper and deeper into debt.
I had a companion, I can't remember who now, but it was a young man sent to guide me through my first visit to the virtual world. As he walked me through each new level, an uneasiness crept over me. I couldn't get those prices, all those numbers out of my head. I knew none of these people had the money to pay for these experiences. I kept trying to get my guide's attention, asking if we could go somewhere private to talk, but he ignored me. That was another red flag; something was terribly wrong with this wondrous world.
In the shadowy corners, I began to catch glimpses of a short, white man, his glasses flashing reflected light out of the darkness. It was *Steve Jobs.
I sped up, my guide calling after me, and then I started running through the crowds, shouting and waving my hands, trying to get anyone's attention. Most people ignored me, others looked up from their activities for a moment, a bemused look on their faces as they wondered how Jobs kept coming up with such crazy apps. I stumbled across members of my own family, but they just thought I was caught up in all the virtual excitement. Nobody would listen to me, and worse yet, I noticed a few figures separating from the crowd to follow me. Guards. Jobs knew what I was up to, and he wasn't about to let me interfere with his grand scheme...
Unfortunately, I woke up before this dream could conclude. It's funny, but most of my life I feel like I've had a hard time getting people to listen to me. Very frustrating, and probably the basis of my dream. (When interpreting dreams, the overall feelings are usually what matter most, not the smaller details.) Do you think I got away and saved the world?
*I wanted to include a note about the Steve Jobs in my dream. One, he looked nothing like the actual Steve Jobs, and two, I highly doubt the real Steve Jobs is trying to take over the world. (I like to give people the benefit of the doubt; if anything he's just trying to earn more money and leave his mark on the world, nothing more malicious than that.)
In my dream, I found myself wandering a virtual world, familiar spaces mashed together in impossible ways, like various malls I've visited attached to Disneyland, city parks, and zoos. I've visited quite a few zoos. The whole place was jam-packed with people, all enjoying some exciting experience or other, whether whooshing down roller coasters, shopping for luxury virtual items at rock-bottom prices, getting massages, or eating exotic virtual foods.
As each new experience occurred, I could see the names and prices of each event hovering in the air next to the participant, appearing as misty white numbers as they purchased their new "apps," fading after a few seconds. That way anyone watching another participant, or "guest," could know how to look up the app for themselves or how much their account would be charged for that experience. It was difficult to see the crowd through the misty numbers constantly appearing in midair, but there was still plenty of noise.
I was excited when I first arrived. The numbers were distracting, but the attractions quickly drew my attention, suppressing my urge to calculate how much money was left in my bank account. Little did I realize, and little did most of the participants there realize that once your checking accounts were emptied, Jobs had a line of credit available for each guest to utilize. And each credit account had no limit. Each "guest" would keep trying and adding new applications to their original virtual reality experience, never realizing they were getting deeper and deeper into debt.
I had a companion, I can't remember who now, but it was a young man sent to guide me through my first visit to the virtual world. As he walked me through each new level, an uneasiness crept over me. I couldn't get those prices, all those numbers out of my head. I knew none of these people had the money to pay for these experiences. I kept trying to get my guide's attention, asking if we could go somewhere private to talk, but he ignored me. That was another red flag; something was terribly wrong with this wondrous world.
In the shadowy corners, I began to catch glimpses of a short, white man, his glasses flashing reflected light out of the darkness. It was *Steve Jobs.
I sped up, my guide calling after me, and then I started running through the crowds, shouting and waving my hands, trying to get anyone's attention. Most people ignored me, others looked up from their activities for a moment, a bemused look on their faces as they wondered how Jobs kept coming up with such crazy apps. I stumbled across members of my own family, but they just thought I was caught up in all the virtual excitement. Nobody would listen to me, and worse yet, I noticed a few figures separating from the crowd to follow me. Guards. Jobs knew what I was up to, and he wasn't about to let me interfere with his grand scheme...
Unfortunately, I woke up before this dream could conclude. It's funny, but most of my life I feel like I've had a hard time getting people to listen to me. Very frustrating, and probably the basis of my dream. (When interpreting dreams, the overall feelings are usually what matter most, not the smaller details.) Do you think I got away and saved the world?
*I wanted to include a note about the Steve Jobs in my dream. One, he looked nothing like the actual Steve Jobs, and two, I highly doubt the real Steve Jobs is trying to take over the world. (I like to give people the benefit of the doubt; if anything he's just trying to earn more money and leave his mark on the world, nothing more malicious than that.)
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Food
The United States has got to be the only nation where its poor can also be fat. For whatever reason, the healthiest, organic foods cost the most to purchase and take the most effort to prepare. So those who are poor tend to go for the largest volume at the cheapest price, and that typically means fatty-fat bad foods. It also means since the lower class are working many hours for low pay, they tend to work longer hours and buy their food pre-made--again, the cheapest source of fuel. Their time isn't worth as much so they have to spend more of it working and have much less time available to prepare healthy meals at home. It's not impossible, just a lot more work than the average American thinks he or she "ought" to do.
Ironically, girth used to be a sign of wealth and prosperity. Now we pity those who can't afford gym memberships and private chefs.
*Steps down off of soap box*
Now, to the more pleasant aspects of food: there is nothing like eating a delicious, freshly prepared meal with friends and family. Some of my favorite memories come from huge family Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners, usually at my maternal grandmother's house. Their house was huge compared to my childhood home--a huge, long, partially covered entryway lined with plants, including a huge hydrangea; three bedrooms, a master suite, three baths, a laundry room, a huge living room with a fireplace (which I never remember seeing lit), a formal dining room, then a kitchen and small family room. The yard was fairly large too; it was built on a corner lot and had several trees and a roomy patio. This house could accommodate all of us, my mother's brother, two sisters and all the cousins.
There was always rice pilaf at our Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners--my grandma was born in the Philippines, my grandpa from Armenia, so we had lots of cultural dishes. Besides the usual turkey or ham, we would also eat tapa (slices of specially marinated, juicy meat--and I'm still not sure if that's the real name of it); cheese boreg (flaky pastry cut in triangles filled with tangy cheese, herbs and butter); kufta (ground meat rolled in some sort of grain mixture in the shape of a palm-size football); and sarma, or dolma (grape leaves soaked in oil stuffed with seasoned, vinegary rice). It's hard to believe I haven't had a meal like that with my grandparents in over a decade--that's how long it's been since their passing.
While I miss my grandparents very much, the times I miss the most when staring out my window at the Idaho snow are the warm summer afternoons spent at my aunt and uncle's house. My dad and his brother are very good friends. They have a pool, and we would often visit. I got to swim with my cousins and build up a hearty appetite while the hot dogs, hamburgers, and corn on the cob were cooking. Cold watermelon is the best on a hot California summer day. After the exercise and delicious, simple food, we would sit around and just talk for hours.
My aunt and uncle also happen to live across the street from a culinary genius, a family from church whose matriarch builds masterful dishes. Now those meals took her forever to make, the kind of food you only hear about in American history books. This mastery came from hours and hours of cooking, perfecting recipes over the years. Still, some food simply requires a lot of time to make. She and her family are also in many of my summertime memories. Again, the best part was being able to just sit and talk afterward. Their family is very kind and shares many similar views on life, so it makes for pleasant conversation.
I think part of the reason food can supply the fuel for such amiable discussions is that we are biological creatures. Our physical urges must be met before we can attempt to do anything else. In natural disasters or accidents, survivors go back to the three essentials: food, water and shelter. As soon as these needs are met, we can concentrate our thoughts and efforts on deeper, more meaningful tasks. Even more reassuring is the knowledge we have food available the next time our body craves it. I know most of us have never experienced anything close to starving, but even missing one or two meals can make it hard to concentrate on anything but our grumbly tummy.
So these family meals are doubly reassuring: typically, there are plenty of leftovers to reassure our bodies, and we are (usually) in the company of people who most closely share our own ideals and values. I know it's good to have friends and acquaintances whose opinions differ from your own, but there is something very comforting in coming back to a group of people who don't constantly criticize your core beliefs. At the very least they are family, and families are there for each other when you need them the most.
Ironically, girth used to be a sign of wealth and prosperity. Now we pity those who can't afford gym memberships and private chefs.
*Steps down off of soap box*
Now, to the more pleasant aspects of food: there is nothing like eating a delicious, freshly prepared meal with friends and family. Some of my favorite memories come from huge family Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners, usually at my maternal grandmother's house. Their house was huge compared to my childhood home--a huge, long, partially covered entryway lined with plants, including a huge hydrangea; three bedrooms, a master suite, three baths, a laundry room, a huge living room with a fireplace (which I never remember seeing lit), a formal dining room, then a kitchen and small family room. The yard was fairly large too; it was built on a corner lot and had several trees and a roomy patio. This house could accommodate all of us, my mother's brother, two sisters and all the cousins.
There was always rice pilaf at our Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners--my grandma was born in the Philippines, my grandpa from Armenia, so we had lots of cultural dishes. Besides the usual turkey or ham, we would also eat tapa (slices of specially marinated, juicy meat--and I'm still not sure if that's the real name of it); cheese boreg (flaky pastry cut in triangles filled with tangy cheese, herbs and butter); kufta (ground meat rolled in some sort of grain mixture in the shape of a palm-size football); and sarma, or dolma (grape leaves soaked in oil stuffed with seasoned, vinegary rice). It's hard to believe I haven't had a meal like that with my grandparents in over a decade--that's how long it's been since their passing.
While I miss my grandparents very much, the times I miss the most when staring out my window at the Idaho snow are the warm summer afternoons spent at my aunt and uncle's house. My dad and his brother are very good friends. They have a pool, and we would often visit. I got to swim with my cousins and build up a hearty appetite while the hot dogs, hamburgers, and corn on the cob were cooking. Cold watermelon is the best on a hot California summer day. After the exercise and delicious, simple food, we would sit around and just talk for hours.
My aunt and uncle also happen to live across the street from a culinary genius, a family from church whose matriarch builds masterful dishes. Now those meals took her forever to make, the kind of food you only hear about in American history books. This mastery came from hours and hours of cooking, perfecting recipes over the years. Still, some food simply requires a lot of time to make. She and her family are also in many of my summertime memories. Again, the best part was being able to just sit and talk afterward. Their family is very kind and shares many similar views on life, so it makes for pleasant conversation.
I think part of the reason food can supply the fuel for such amiable discussions is that we are biological creatures. Our physical urges must be met before we can attempt to do anything else. In natural disasters or accidents, survivors go back to the three essentials: food, water and shelter. As soon as these needs are met, we can concentrate our thoughts and efforts on deeper, more meaningful tasks. Even more reassuring is the knowledge we have food available the next time our body craves it. I know most of us have never experienced anything close to starving, but even missing one or two meals can make it hard to concentrate on anything but our grumbly tummy.
So these family meals are doubly reassuring: typically, there are plenty of leftovers to reassure our bodies, and we are (usually) in the company of people who most closely share our own ideals and values. I know it's good to have friends and acquaintances whose opinions differ from your own, but there is something very comforting in coming back to a group of people who don't constantly criticize your core beliefs. At the very least they are family, and families are there for each other when you need them the most.
Friday, January 7, 2011
If I Had A Million Dollars
Ever wish there was something more you could do for someone? I pretty much always feel that way. I wish I had more influence in the world, more access to funds and time at my disposal to disperse said funds. I've come to realize that a lot of my friends' problems could be solved with more money. Of course, those who actually do have the means to help others find that it is not as simple as throwing money at them.
We've all imagined in our lives what we would do if we ever got a million dollars. (Granted, it doesn't sound like very much money in today's economy, and probably wouldn't go far unless invested very carefully.) One older and wiser man once told me that if he ever came into that kind of money, he wouldn't tell anyone but his wife. His response surprised me a bit; I didn't take him for a secretive or overly private man. But his explanation made a lot of sense.
Money makes enemies, even of family members. Everyone thinks they know better how to spend your money than you do, and even if you do regularly help out financially, those same friends and family will wonder why you don't do more. It's just human nature to start relaxing and become reckless with money once we don't have to worry about whether or not it's coming.
I've heard of lotto millionaires who became so depressed after winning that they committed suicide. I'm not sure if there is any validity to this, but I wouldn't be surprised. We are creatures of achievement; we need work to feel happy and fulfilled.
Proof in point is the example of communal plots of land--back at the founding of our country, a few towns tried harvesting their crops based on a rotating community-wide schedule. Those towns inevitably went hungry. To me this means the community land was too far removed from the immediate needs of the individual family. It was easy to slack off and say, "Well, somebody will do the weeding, even if I don't. I'll still get to eat this winter, even if I take today off to go fishing." I can just imagine this attitude spreading through the town, and once everyone took a day off, a lot of the crop was lost. As soon as these towns divided the land up to individual families, however, the town prospered.
So not only do receivers start to become lazy or even greedy, the givers can start to feel taken for granted and resent their friends. It is very easy to start observing the receiver's spending habits--why are they still eating out every week when they can't pay all their bills? Why are they still buying the latest and greatest electronic gadgets when their rent is due? Giving and receiving can be bad for both parties involved.
Yet there are benefits that come from the suffering involved in not knowing how we will survive another month. Those in distress, particularly financial distress, tend to draw closer to the Lord, praying and studying their scriptures more diligently than before, reconfirming their testimony of Christ. As I see it, our relationship with the Lord is completely independent of whatever befalls us in this life--much like the story of Job in the Bible.
Job was a very prosperous man, but he lost everything. Instead of cursing the Lord, he kept on praying, holding on to his faith, proving his relationship with God was worth more than any earthly riches, including his physical health or the support of a family (he lost his wife and children in addition to his lands and riches). I doubt most of us will have to endure what Job did, yet there will be times when we feel like God is picking on us. (He's not--if anything, He allows us these trials as an opportunity to become better people. And sometimes improvement comes with pain.)
Trials can also help families be more grateful for what they DO have--each other--and be patient when it takes a while to recover from financial problems. Trials can be like a reset button in life, taking us back to the true essentials for happiness. Many families stop eating out and sit down together for family meals more often. Family members then get the chance to bond and eat healthier. The more expensive forms of entertainment are often replaced with the simple ones, like single-player video games for multi-player board games and family picnics--again, a time to bond with loved ones and create supportive environments for young, developing minds.
So while I can't exactly say at this point that I'm grateful for trials, I can at least acknowledge their value. In the meantime, it doesn't hurt to do a little dreaming about what I'd do with a million dollars...
We've all imagined in our lives what we would do if we ever got a million dollars. (Granted, it doesn't sound like very much money in today's economy, and probably wouldn't go far unless invested very carefully.) One older and wiser man once told me that if he ever came into that kind of money, he wouldn't tell anyone but his wife. His response surprised me a bit; I didn't take him for a secretive or overly private man. But his explanation made a lot of sense.
Money makes enemies, even of family members. Everyone thinks they know better how to spend your money than you do, and even if you do regularly help out financially, those same friends and family will wonder why you don't do more. It's just human nature to start relaxing and become reckless with money once we don't have to worry about whether or not it's coming.
I've heard of lotto millionaires who became so depressed after winning that they committed suicide. I'm not sure if there is any validity to this, but I wouldn't be surprised. We are creatures of achievement; we need work to feel happy and fulfilled.
Proof in point is the example of communal plots of land--back at the founding of our country, a few towns tried harvesting their crops based on a rotating community-wide schedule. Those towns inevitably went hungry. To me this means the community land was too far removed from the immediate needs of the individual family. It was easy to slack off and say, "Well, somebody will do the weeding, even if I don't. I'll still get to eat this winter, even if I take today off to go fishing." I can just imagine this attitude spreading through the town, and once everyone took a day off, a lot of the crop was lost. As soon as these towns divided the land up to individual families, however, the town prospered.
So not only do receivers start to become lazy or even greedy, the givers can start to feel taken for granted and resent their friends. It is very easy to start observing the receiver's spending habits--why are they still eating out every week when they can't pay all their bills? Why are they still buying the latest and greatest electronic gadgets when their rent is due? Giving and receiving can be bad for both parties involved.
Yet there are benefits that come from the suffering involved in not knowing how we will survive another month. Those in distress, particularly financial distress, tend to draw closer to the Lord, praying and studying their scriptures more diligently than before, reconfirming their testimony of Christ. As I see it, our relationship with the Lord is completely independent of whatever befalls us in this life--much like the story of Job in the Bible.
Job was a very prosperous man, but he lost everything. Instead of cursing the Lord, he kept on praying, holding on to his faith, proving his relationship with God was worth more than any earthly riches, including his physical health or the support of a family (he lost his wife and children in addition to his lands and riches). I doubt most of us will have to endure what Job did, yet there will be times when we feel like God is picking on us. (He's not--if anything, He allows us these trials as an opportunity to become better people. And sometimes improvement comes with pain.)
Trials can also help families be more grateful for what they DO have--each other--and be patient when it takes a while to recover from financial problems. Trials can be like a reset button in life, taking us back to the true essentials for happiness. Many families stop eating out and sit down together for family meals more often. Family members then get the chance to bond and eat healthier. The more expensive forms of entertainment are often replaced with the simple ones, like single-player video games for multi-player board games and family picnics--again, a time to bond with loved ones and create supportive environments for young, developing minds.
So while I can't exactly say at this point that I'm grateful for trials, I can at least acknowledge their value. In the meantime, it doesn't hurt to do a little dreaming about what I'd do with a million dollars...
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