I am the anti-cupid

As I was working today, I came across two frisky little adolescent squirrels (this is not a metaphor, people--I'm talking about the furry little rodentish creatures) playing in a park up the canyon. One of the squirrels, we'll call him Boris, was playfully but persistently pursuing the other, we'll call her Natasha. While observing Boris and Natasha, I was on a mule, driving on an upwardly sloped trail, parallel to our fluffy tailed amours. I was driving slowly and carefully observing so as not to take my eye off, have them suddenly swerve into my path, and die a gruesomely passionate death in each other's tiny, tiny arms.

Natasha, though, was a bit reticent. She didn't want to be caught and may have been a bit annoyed with Boris. I find squirrel flirting very difficult to interpret. Suddenly, she darted out in front of my wheels, crossed the road, and didn't look back. Boris was just far enough behind to have to stop in order to save his own lusty life. He sat up on his hind legs, looked longingly toward Natasha bounding up the stream then, I kid you not, gave me the stink eye.

I got news for him, though. Natasha was having none of it. He needs to slow his roll and let her really get to know him, stop pressuring her and let the relationship develop organically.

I may be anthropomorphizing here.

They were awfully cute squirrels, though. And although winter is coming, there's still plenty of time for Boris to make a solid case for love. I may have thwarted his clumsy pursuit today, but if he has the heart and the will to court his lady squirrel, love will surely triumph. Good luck, Boris. And Natasha, heaven help ya, girl.

Last, sort of related thing. As I was searching for illustrations to accompany this post (which, by the way, I think probably actually show squirrels fighting or something, but whatever), I found this little dollop of awesomeness:

I also found pictures of squirrels copulating, but I won't post those. Not that there's anything wrong with squirrel intercourse. It just seems a little soon for Boris and Natasha and I don't want them getting any ideas.

And now, it is time for me to go to sleep because I have to be to work in 6 and a half hours. And I'm so tired, I just wrote a short paragraph about squirrel porn. Blurgh. 'Night.

A Haiku

Skin peels off in sheets
so thin they are transparent.
Sun does not like me.

Never, never, ever give up, or why JP has taught me more about Christ than anyone else.

Part II of why my sibs are pretty dang amazing.

When I was thirteen months and ten days old, my parents gave Gina and I a long-awaited little brother. Okay, so Gina and I hadn't waited all that long, but I'm fairly certain I heard my Poppy's sigh of relief when they told him it was a boy, even all the way back at my grandma's house. JP was a skinny little thing, I've been told, the littlest of us babies at 6lbs and some change. He was a cutie, in his mini football uniform he got nearly every Christmas, out in the back running patterns with his imaginary BYU teammates. Did you know my brother played with Glen Kozlowski? Neither does Kozlowski, but he was an integral part of the imaginative football play in our backyard all those years JP was waiting for Moe to grow up a little bit.

I love JP, but that didn't happen naturally when we were young. He and I could butt heads with the best of them. The boys knew exactly how to push my buttons, and I was very bad at patiently controlling my anger at their hijinks. I recall a meltdown on a camping trip with our cousins when I discovered a cache of snails they had deposited in my sleeping bag. And that one time when they rubbed a clove of garlic on my pillowcase when I was a teenager. Aaargh.

Luckily, we get older, and in the case of JP and I, wiser. There were a few years where we didn't see a lot of each other. JP left for his mission about a year or so before I left for Detroit, and by the time I was home he had made his way to college. Then I went to Logan. And we both struggled.

While I was dealing with depression and anxiety, JP had his own bag of troubles to figure out. By the time he and I were out of school again and sharing an apartment, I rapidly became really worried about him. He was drowning, and none of us could figure out how to help him back to the shore.

I remember a dream I had around that time. After we gave up that apartment and went our separate ways, we were somewhat disconnected, but my heart was constantly drawn towards him. If you've ever loved someone you couldn't help, you'll know what I was feeling. One night I had a very vivid dream where JP was in the back of a pickup truck, wounded and bleeding and just barely breathing. I bolted awake that night in tears, so worried about my brother that I couldn't go back to sleep. My anxieties for his health and well-being were working their way into my subconscious mind, and I was sincerely afraid for a short time that I was going to get one of those awful late night phone calls.

It was a nightmare. I didn't know how long I could take it. I was always afraid for him, always worried about his physical, emotional and spiritual state. It was exhausting. But at the center of all this was a simply profound truth: I would rather suffer with him for all of eternity than lose him for even one moment. I would give my own life in teaspoons or buckets full of worry and stress and tears if it would give him any little moment of relief or redemption.

Of course, I cannot give JP, or anyone really, relief or redemption. That honor and burden is reserved for the One who gave his own life in our behalf. I feel like I was graced for just a moment to feel for my brother what his Savior feels for him, what He feels for me and for you. My testimony of Christ is rooted firmly in that knowledge.

Through the grace of God (and let's be honest, the strong and devoted heart of his beautiful wife) he found his way out of darkness and into a great light. Like me and all of us, he still has struggles--but they are accompanied by joys as big as the world. When I dream of him now, I see miracles--ones manifest already and so many to come. A few months ago, I was struggling again: scared, anxious, bleeding at the mouth over disappointed hopes, frustrated desires, and general confusion. I called him late at night in tears, sheepishly asking him to leave his little family to administer a priesthood blessing to me. In fifteen minutes he was on my doorstep, white shirt and tie, with a big hug and wiped tears. We talked for a few minutes--he kindly listened to my unhappiness, then he laid his hands on my head and with power and authority called on the powers of heaven to provide me comfort, peace and direction. I testify that he was the conduit for revelation. It's been a very long time since I felt the spirit of God the way I felt it in my little house that night because my brother, my dear JP, was willing and worthy.

Christ is real. His love is infinite and sufficient to overcome anything. No matter what you've done, no matter how the world has beaten you and been unfair, no matter how broken and bleeding you might feel, he bids us to come to Him. To never, never, ever give up. My brother taught me that, and I love him dearly for the lesson.

What scares me today

I used to be a teacher. My first real, albeit short-lived, grown-up career was as a high school English teacher at Alta High School. I wasn't very good at it (although I had some moments of brilliance), and after three years I realized it just wasn't going to work. As I was speeding to a sophomore softball tournament that last April with blurry, teared-up eyes, crying to my sister about how utterly and completely miserable I was, I realized I could not continue my teaching career.

Sidenote: Right after I turned in my resignation, I got the results from my Praxis exam (a standardized test that teachers have to take in order to move from a provisionary license to the real thing). I paid a lot of money to take it, stressed about it, finally took it, and promptly realized that I couldn't continue teaching and survive. So, they sent me my results with a big old certificate honoring the fact that I scored in the 90th percentile or something. I may or may not have cursed the Praxis and that stupid certificate with some particularly colorful language. Back to the main event...

I was exhausted, I felt persecuted, and I constantly berated myself for not living up to the importance of preparing young minds for their future. I had over 40 students in most of my classes. They were seniors who opted out of every other possibility to earn their last Language Arts credit-the major road block to graduation and their ticket out of there. Most of them were ticked off at me before we even met, and possibly more pissy about it upon realizing that I actually expected them to do something in order to pass. I was also helping with the softball team, which meant after Christmas, most days I left my house at about 6:30 and came home somewhere around 10, usually with a pile of papers to grade. And, I couldn't make ends meet on my $24,000 annual salary.

So I quit. I had no idea what I was going to do, but I had paychecks coming through the summer and decided that I had enough time to figure it out. And I did. I got a part-time job at the Library that quickly (and mercifully) became a full-time gig, and I've been there ever since.

What does that have to do with the sense of fear I'm experiencing today? Well, after six years, my career at the Library feels stalled. I've been talking and thinking about going back to school for several years. After much stress, anxiety, and more bleary, tear-filled eyes this spring, I decided now was the time. I'm starting the EMPA program at BYU this fall. (That's a master's of public administration--sort of similar to an MBA for people who would like to focus on the public and non-profit sector.) I have no idea where this is leading me. That's been the strangest part. I thought I knew where I was going with it, but since I've actually been accepted to the program, I've had this niggling feeling in the pit of my stomach and a little voice in the recesses of my mind that says "you have no idea yet where this will lead. But it's going, so buckle your seat belt and enjoy the ride." Who knows, maybe in ten years I'll still be in my flourescently lighted cave at the library, planning (and surviving) summer reading. But maybe I won't.

Anyway, you're probably wondering why this scares me. I've been at Math Camp this week--a refresher course for those of us who haven't been in a math, stats, or econ class in many years. So, we're talking about math and graphs, and what they mean and how to read them, and it's all becoming real. That I'm really doing this, spending a massive amount of time, money and energy on a master's degree. And I better make it worthwhile. There are only two things that I am genuinely passionate about in my life. The first is my family--the mortal one I so enjoy now, the mortal one that I very much hope to enjoy at some point in the future (maybe? my faith is weak on that admittedly), and the heavenly one that is at the core of my identity. Important, but only marginally related to my career and education. #2 on the list? Public education. I've been reading a new Georgetown study on the Great Recession and unemployment today that is fascinating, and feels a little like a call to arms to me. I've barely scratched the surface of the study, so who knows what I'll think after I've really looked at it, but if you're interested, here's the link

I won't go into it now, except to say this: In the future, our kids will need more than a high school diploma to enter the middle class. In a time when some legislators are suggesting deep cuts to education, especially to post-secondary programs like Pell grants, we have to face reality. All those students who are unable to complete a post-secondary education because they don't have the cash, the skills, or the direction out of high school to manage it, will be economically crippled throughout their lives. They will form a poverty class that we will all pay for in the long run. We need reform, not to make it harder for young people to afford school, but to make sure that they have all the resources they need to succeed. Sifting through all the ideas on how to do that will take longer than this post can sustain. Suffice it to say, that I could get very, very fired up about this.

Which is what scares me today. Fire burns things, right down to ashes if you're not careful. If you were to ask me what I'd really like to do with an MPA, the answer might just be working toward a better, fairer and more effective education system. But I was singed around the edges the last time I fought the education fire in the classroom. And from this angle, it wouldn't just be about the classroom--it would be about public policy, and politics, and all the stuff that simultaneously makes me want to roll my eyes, scream like a banshee, and projectile vomit.

So there it is. The second deepest fear of my life. All this is mighty premature, I admit. I haven't even been to orientation for the program yet. Maybe it will all work itself out. All I know is I need a master's degree and a passport.

Two more, totally unrelated things: A. I'm very proud of myself tonight because I ate a real dinner that I made my own self, with vegetables and everything. I'm a little ashamed that it makes me proud, though. Grown-ups do that regularly. B. I should never announce what my next blog post will be, because I NEVER follow through with whatever topic I announce! LAME! I'm just so easily distracted. It might be the thing I don't like most about myself. That, or my belly. Or maybe my terrible sleep habits. Or...Anyway, I am going to finish writing about my siblings, and soon. I'm finding it hard to write about my brothers though. My words will never do them justice.

Okay, one last unrelated thing. I think we should declare a moratorium on all political campaigning for 6 of the 7 days of the week. Every Tuesday for 24 hours, candidates can campaign, but for the rest of the week they have to shut the H up and do something productive. That way we can avoid all the extraneous BS they engage in while they pare their communication down to actual policy discussion, and I might actually find a good reason to vote FOR someone for a change. God help us until the 7th of November.

Cheers! I'm out.

Citius, Altius, Funny-us.

I finally got a chance to catch a little of the Olympics while I was with my family in Bear Lake this week. I loved the sprinters. If I could see myself run, I'm fairly certain I'd look like a Jell-O salad hucked across the Sunday dinner table. These Olympians have precise control that I covet (but not enough to sprint ever, for any reason). I watched the gymnasts, but I can't do that for very long. I'm always clutching the chair, white-knuckled, worried that someone's going to break their neck. I had to leave the room when they showed that weightlifter drop the bar on his neck. And how in the name of all that is holy do those synchronized swimmers breathe! It's all so stressful and serious (and sappy, if you are unfortunate enough to watch it un-muted. Yes, Bob Costas, I'm looking at you).

So, I was overjoyed when I found this:



Now that's a gymnastics routine I can fully enjoy. Well, enjoy, and cringe a tiny bit about. The moment he goes up in a handstand and his skirt flips over, I feel a strong impulse to avert my eyes. This happens whenever I see a man with his boy parts cloaked in spandex. Makes watching the swimmers a little uncomfortable. I just don't know any of them well enough to be that familiar with the size and shape of their twig and berries, or branch and pinecones, or whatever variation on that theme they happen to posess. Just for the record, I don't like the women's swimsuits either. That cannot be comfortable for the boobs, to be smooshed so thoroughly. Yikes. Drag, be damned, I say. And how do the gymnasts avoid wedgies? These are the distractions that keep me from fully enjoying the world's greatest athletic spectacle every four years.

But back to Paul Hunt. Here's his uneven bars.




Bwah, ha, ha, ha, ha. He even successfully executes what I consider to be the most difficult of the physical comedy tropes--the crotch shot. Strength, balance, grace, and a willingness to be unrestrainedly goofy-what more can you ask for?

One more. It won't let me embed it, so you're going to have to click on the link to watch it, but it's worth it. Especially if you take special notice of his back hair in his patriotic leotard. You're welcome.

Enjoy!