On the Periphery.

I don't think anything frustrates me more than insincerity. I bristle at any word that might be insincere. I take careful steps not to say anything on the internet that might sound insincere.

So it's hard for me to write about things that are touchy. Not because I don't have feelings about them, but because I worry that my feelings will come off as insincere or feigned or bland and broad and safe--all of which would make them unpalatable to me.

A lot of people on the periphery of my life have died recently. The manager of the Costa Vida at UVU. A distant acquaintance's brother. Elder Perry of the leadership of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. And Beau, the vice president's son, twice the attorney general of my home state.

When people on the periphery of your life die, it is always surprising how much it means to you. That you can feel so changed, knowing that Donny won't ever make your salad at Costa Vida again. It's tender and strange to describe, but it's a real feeling.

When you feel that way, you remember that life must mean something. Otherwise, dying wouldn't mean so much. I believe that Jesus is the Savior, and that's why things have meaning. Because of Jesus, neither life nor death can make life meaningless.

You caught me in a candid moment.

There's this place I like to get breakfast on my way to work sometimes. There's like 4 people who work there, and they're there every morning. I like the guy behind the counter. He's pleasant. Sometimes he jokes with the person in front of me in line, but not me, and I feel insecure.

Today I went in and went to the big glass case to look at my pastry options. He was singing along to the radio.

After a few seconds, he saw me and said, from behind the case, "Oh! You caught me in a candid moment."

From my side of the case, I took a little glance at him, mumbled, and finally said, "Yeah... and I'm glad I did."

From his side of the case: "I'm really good at singing, you know."

From my side: Mumble, mumble, "I can see that."

Then, I ordered my food, and he asked me if I wanted my pastries heated up in the microwave. And he doesn't always ask that to everyone. I like to think he just does it for his favorites.

The truth is that there were at least 400 more interesting things to say than what I came up with. For instance,

Him: I'm really good at singing, you know.

Me: You don't have to tell me twice.

Same message, better delivery. Do you see what I'm saying?

Let's Hope Nothing Happens to Us.

There's this cute French movie I've seen called Romantics Anonymous. It's about two extremely anxious chocolate makers who fall in love.

In one scene, the man tells his therapist that his father's motto was "Let's hope nothing happens to us."

The truth is, that little phrase makes sense to my heart. It's not "Let's hope that nothing bad happens to us," but that nothing will happen at all.

I feel that way, because I'm afraid of every new thing that could happen to me. I'm usually excited too, but I'm afraid first. 

My belief that I can't do it and that I'm not good enough is lodged so far down into my gut that I can't even reach it, not with my deepest diving periscope. It crops up like the tagalong friend that no one ever actually invites but who ends up saying something funny by accident, so everyone lets him stay.

And there it bleeds its messy guts all over the pretty life I'm trying to create. How are you supposed to paint your masterpiece when there's an ugly part of yourself bleeding its messy guts all over the corner where you were going to paint a glittering white city like Minas Tirith?

I don't know the answer. Today I heard a lovely song that said, "I don't want to die before I live." Maybe if I repeat nice mottoes to myself instead, I'll believe them.

Riots.

Today, there were riots in Baltimore. Baltimore. So close to home. Where my brother went to college.

When I saw the news on the internet, I couldn't help thinking, How come I didn't know?

Shouldn't there be something in my heart that stirs when people get so sick and tired that they pick up bricks and throw them at each other? When people don't know what to do except kick in windows?

Shouldn't there be something in my heart that stirs when police officers wake up for a normal day of work and end up lying next to each other in hospital beds?

Shouldn't there be something human in my heart that stirs? Some buzz in the air that makes it over the Rockies to where I am? How can there be riots in Baltimore without some analogous change in my day?

I guess our hearts can't be so cosmically tuned in to human suffering, or else we would never do anything but suffer.

Conception.

I had a thought a while before my birthday, when I was driving: When was I conceived?

I calculated slowly and obtusely in my mind. Nine months before the middle of March is... the middle of June.

The middle of June? Right around the summer solstice?

I went home and looked up a pregnancy calendar just to be sure. I typed in March 14 as the due date and clicked the button. And guess what it said.

Conception date: June 21. The usual date of the summer solstice.

I'm going to try to describe to you what this means to me, even though I know it's strange. 

Yes, I was born 3 days early, so I probably wasn't actually conceived on the actual summer solstice. But. The idea of it is so perfect. I feel more like me when I think about it than I ever have before.

On the best day of the year, when the sun shines longer than it does any other day, I was born for the first time.

On a day that promises sunshine and warmth and adventure and joy, came the promise of my life, full of all the same things.

On the day when little girls wear crowns of flowers in their hair, God smiled down at my parents and said, "You're going to have a baby."

Like I was the crowning achievement of an already beautiful, exultant day.

And through a long summer and fall and winter, I grew and had my first education in being a human, there inside my mom. My heart learned to beat, and my lungs practiced breathing fluid in preparation for air.

And then, just before spring, I was born into the world, along with the flowers on the trees.

Can you see how realizing that would make all the difference?

Stargazing.

Yesterday night, we left the library at 11:20 to go stargazing. Scott needed to get past the light pollution for his astronomy assignment, so we drove up into the canyon.

We parked in an empty parking lot, pulled on sweatshirts, craned back our necks, and there were the stars. 

We found the Big Dipper, then the little unassuming North Star. I found the Little Dipper for the first time. Then we arced to Arcturus and spiked to Spica. 

Scott told us about Orion hunting the Pleiades, and Cassiopeia and Andromeda and Perseus and Pegasus. Wes asked questions, and I said "Oh!" from time to time. We all danced back and forth to keep our feet warm.

With each moment we stood there, my fears that a crazy ax-carrying man or a hungry mountain lion would come running out of the dark slowly subsided. There was only us. I breathed in peace with each word we spoke in hushed middle-of-the-night mountain tones.

I looked from Wes' face to Scott's, and they were only muddled black shapes. But even so, the black outlines of the way they were standing gave them away, framed against the black trees.

We were three friends who had gone away from where there were lights and where there were sounds. Now we could feel the wind on our faces, because there was nothing to stop it from touching us. I closed my eyes and turned toward it.

Somewhere we live inside.

Today at work, I said to Alyssa, "I'm going to play a song to make you happy."

She said, "Okay," and I suppressed sheepish giggles as I opened Spotify.

Part of me felt bad because I knew that I was about to play her this:

Oh that first sweet riff.

But after a minute or so, I said, "Wait, I'm kind of enjoying this." To protect her privacy, I won't tell you what she said. Let's just say we ended up listening to the whole song.

#seventhgrade #christianrock #painfullyuncool #24findsmein24thplace