See what I mean?
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Dad Polls
Ha ha. Okay, I'll stop pilfering Calvin and Hobbes. But I just had this flashback memory of polling my Dad's performance after getting the idea from Calvin. Ha! I had a chart on graphing paper that I kept for like a month evaluating my Dad's performance. I remember being punished for something and his polls took a serious dive, like off the chart. Poor guy. Give me dessert or prepare to be seriously judged. 
Monday, August 18, 2008
Mischievous Boydom: Calvin Lambson
I think I just figured something out. Calvin grew up, he changed his name, dyed his hair, and asked me to marry him. The above is a very accurate depiction of Sam in front of the mirror while I floss my teeth at night.I made a goal to read a novel a week, but I put down Tom Sawyer to read Calvin and Hobbes, Sunday Pages 1985-1995, which was on sale and I couldn't resist. Even though I've read every C&H strip ever written (which defined my upbringing and essentially taught me everything I know), I loved reading this collection including Bill Watterson's commentary on his own work.
When I was younger I used to want to be a cartoonist and an animator--I always thought I would study art in college, but I chose music when the time came. I can't wait to take community art classes again. I used to draw comic strips, and I created a team of characters in sixth grade that revolved around my main character, Joe, a white mouse (I had pet mice in middle school). My dad always wants me to draw him--I think I refused a request even a week ago. Dad even had me take a Marvel comic book course via the mail. This is the unknown trivia concerning Liz Rhodes, like taking magic trick lessons, that just doesn't come up very often.
As I was reading this book, I really wanted to share some of the strips with Sam, who didn't grow up reading Calvin and Hobbes, but I think I might make him sit down and read this Sunday collection to get him caught up. Both Tom Sawyer and C&H TOTALLY remind me of Sam; I feel like I'm re-educating myself in the ways of mischievous boy-dom.
This is one that I wanted to share with Sam when he comes home because it totally reminds me of him at dinner: sometimes very fidgety, playing with his food, putting things up his nose, etc. My favorite spontaneous dinner show by Sam involved him resting his nose on the edge of the table and jetting puffs of air out of his nostrils, thus sending his head slowly bouncing across the table edge like an astronaut bouncing across the moon. I usually sit there watching with my eyebrows raised.
Endless entertainment. Sometimes I feel like Susie, wanting to play house; sometimes like Calvin's mom, making some elaborate meal that could end up in Sam's nostril; and sometimes like Hobbes, sitting under a tree with a book while Calvin is wreaking havoc, or waiting for Calvin to come home to play.I think I married a cartoon.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
An ode to shoes that never get thrown out.
So I went to grab a pair of shoes in the back corner of the closet this morning, and behind the laundry hamper I saw my good old Adidas Sambas staring up at me the way they have since I was 14. That's right - I purchased those old shoes in 1998, when I was in dire need of size 13s living in China (not an easy find let me tell you). One of my british friends, Simon, gave me a business card to the Adidas Warehouse in Aberdeen. At first I had no idea what he was talking about because I was hearing "Odidos Warehouse" and I thought it was a Chinese thing. But when I looked at the card, the familiar 3 stripes let me know that it was, in fact, something familiar - something American - and it warmed my sole (pun intended).
In fact, those shoes embraced my feet for many years, shielding them from the elements, and I wore them almost every day until the end of 2002 when I went on my mission. That's when my brother, Paul, adopted them for a couple years. Though he was rather attached to them when I returned in 2004, I took them to BYU for my first semester of college. And they've been with me ever since.
So you can imagine what feelings rise in my heart as I see these things, stripes half-peeled off and curled, soles worn through the bottom. When I brought them out to show Liz (and ask if they looked good with my outfit), she pulled out her good old Reboks that she bought in 7th grade (1998) 10 years ago.
You see, Liz and I are very different, but very similar at the same time. She is incredibly talented, creative, and artistic and I am very pragmatic, light-hearted, and kinda dumb. But we come together where it counts. Like we love eachother and we both have old-old shoes that we just can't let go.
In fact, those shoes embraced my feet for many years, shielding them from the elements, and I wore them almost every day until the end of 2002 when I went on my mission. That's when my brother, Paul, adopted them for a couple years. Though he was rather attached to them when I returned in 2004, I took them to BYU for my first semester of college. And they've been with me ever since.
So you can imagine what feelings rise in my heart as I see these things, stripes half-peeled off and curled, soles worn through the bottom. When I brought them out to show Liz (and ask if they looked good with my outfit), she pulled out her good old Reboks that she bought in 7th grade (1998) 10 years ago.
You see, Liz and I are very different, but very similar at the same time. She is incredibly talented, creative, and artistic and I am very pragmatic, light-hearted, and kinda dumb. But we come together where it counts. Like we love eachother and we both have old-old shoes that we just can't let go.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
A Chapter from the Story of my Life (which became our life)
I was getting all ready to write this deep, introspective, and meditative blog entry when it occurred to me, again, that the entire Wonder Years series is out on DVD, which totally overshadows anything even remotely worthwhile that I might have to say. Seriously, I have visited the TV on DVD isles of many a merchant just looking, hoping, that maybe . . . but no . . . not yet. I've even searched online to no avail. Until today, even on Facebook advertisements, I saw the inevitable come to life--
And, yes, finally! They're here! There is good in the world! There is hope for mankind! Faith in humanity! It's a celebration!
Well, anyway, I picked up Walden today. Walden; or, Life in the Woods. As a stranger in California, I could identify with "life in the woods," I thought. I bought it for $2.50 last year and was going to give it to someone as a Christmas present, but I couldn't imagine myself reading it, nonetheless someone else who would be getting plenty of more entertaining and less taxing Christmas gifts. But as I started it, I pulled up a totally unexpected and refreshing image of Henry David, a strapping young (okay, he was in his 30s or something), argumentative, opinionated, and verbose fellow who starts Walden with so many extreme statements I was almost motivated to get off my bum and grab a highlighter.
I didn't grab a highlighter, I just stayed on my bum. But, expecting to drift off into an early afternoon nap, I found myself instead between staring at the ceiling and the back of my eyelids, rewinding my life until two years ago.
A lot happened in my undergraduate years at BYU--all five of them. I remembered today that I hadn't checked my full grade report from my last semester. I never saw my cumulative GPA. I graduated, and then I ran off and got married, and I hadn't taken a minute to think back on my years at BYU until just this morning--not just reflections on BYU, but on my life since I moved out. I'm kinda proud of the fact that I moved out at 17. It's just a smidge earlier than 18, but I never moved back home, not even for a summer. The next five years were full of the greatest, most life-altering adventures.
I rewound and pressed play about 2 years ago. April, 2006. That year I moved, like, seven times. I finished a year at the house on Briar with Lara Ackerman. I moved my things into storage. I went to the UK for a month. I came back and lived two weeks in a shabby house we called "the Ark." I moved into Spanish house for the summer. I moved in the fall to a basement apartment where I was alone with only the dead maggots all over the ceiling and no keys to the door. I quickly moved out and into a cute apartment on 9th, only I had no roommates for the first month, so I was lonely and sad and stressed. I arranged to move out at Christmas and live with my good friend Maggie Bennett, Jaclyn, and Maria.
There were like saviors--we ate brownies and danced in our bedrooms and I watched them watch Gilmore Girls (I didn't proactively watch or understand it). And after that semester (W'07) I visited Colorado for a week and moved into Hampstead Court #4 with Angel and Brittany Kirkham, and Megan Stubbs. We spent the summer there and moved upstairs in Fall '07 to #15, and that's when Sam got back from Seattle and came into the picture.
We ran away together this summer, off to California. But one thing I learned from that year of moving 7 times (7?) is that moving doesn't allow you to escape yourself. I do believe it can mark a new start, it can help in the process of clearing one's slate, but in the end, you're still you, the conglomerate of a million stories.
When we ran away to California, I believed in the prospect that our married life would replace and eliminate (like a very powerful pesticide) all that went before. But as I rewound today and meditated on some of the events and people and experiences that led up to the day I met Sam (which I can't quite identify--he was around, and later, he was AROUND, if you know what I mean), it was all surprisingly continuous.
I tend to think of events as islands. But as I tried to reconstruct the past two years chronologically, I was totally baffled by the reality of ALL of those things happening in such small windows of time. For example, I think of the apartment on 9th as an experience island. There was my bunk bed, the smell of mildewy wood, dust, and fresh paint, decorations on the walls, and the rough noodly carpet. But while I was living there I was simultaneously taking classes, working as the editor of Eagle's Eye magazine, recording Red and Yellow, attempting to write the beginnings of a YA novel, going to concerts and parties and dances, NOT dating (I think there was one uneventful date that didn't pique my interest around Christmastime), addressing health problems, maintaining my vehicle, looking for a new place to live, getting to know the eventual new roommates from Tenessee, playing in Orchestra at Temple Square and running in my heels and concert black hoping to catch the 6:30 bus on Sunday mornings to Salt Lake . . . .
Isn't it exhausting? But the refreshing part of remembering all of this is that I remembered that I existed then in the same way that I exist now. I don't know if that makes any sense. But when we got married I thought it was my duty to put all of my past behind me. Sam and I are the new life--there is a new togetherness that doesn't allow for the existance of the old, single Liz Rhodes. However: bull! Sam fell in love with Liz Rhodes. She is very much a part of who I still am, with all her ruddy faults and redeeming qualities.
I think when we came to California I may have wiped my slate too clean. I graduated and swept BYU under the rug. My old job, my classes and habits as a student. Utah even, with the mountains, the trees, the snow. I actively forgot them. Colorado, my hometown too. I thought none of it was pertinant to my life now. I forgot about the friends I spent 5 years making at school. I isolated myself to experiencing the laundry and dishes, reading about how to find meaning and comfort in these repetative activities. I don't always find then that satisfying. I'm no saint in that respect. I'm just learning, ever learning what my roles are, and who I am.
I hope to know by the time I'm 24. I know that's a lofty expectation, to look forward to growing up by age 24, but I don't think it's all that unrealistic [okay, maybe it is]. I actually read an article today in my neighbor's copy of BYU Magazine (which is probably what got me thinking about the past five years), and I was so intrigued by an article called "In-Between-Ness: How to help your emerging adult through an extended post-adolescence" by M. Sue Bergin.
"Most men and women ages 18 to 25 do not consider themselves adults, and neither do their parents. They are, rather, 'emerging adults,' says Larry J. Nelson . . .
"About a decade ago researchers identified the emerging-adult idea and found that this age group no longer believes tradional milestones mark entrance into adulthood, such as marriage, parenthood, and home ownership. Rather, says Nelson, they believe that adulthood is reached with 'internal markers--developing greater concern for others, accepting responsibility for the consequences of your actions, gaining financial independence.'"
Isn't that fascinating? The article also talks about how baby-boomer parents don't identify with the more recent emerging adult. I thought about my dad asking me to get my own cell phone plan, and how now that I'm married and all the Rhodes children have graduated, he assumed we would all do our own thing for Christmas this year. Who wants to bother with dear old Dad, I think he said. I was almost taken aback in shock. No Christmas as a family? I thought now, with the marriage, what better time could there be to celebrate family and get us all together again?
But maybe the marriage was more like a last hurrah for youth, a denouement, a quinceanera. Was it my official presentation to the public as an adult? My "debut into society"?
Hello world! May I note that I am still young, usually confused, and still in the process of learning what my roles are as a college graduate and wife! It is a thrilling adventure, let me assure you.
After all of this, I concluded my morning of meditation by pulling out the composition notebook dedicated entirely to my courtship with Sam. It's the journal I started on October 13, 2007 (the day after our official first date), and concluded, 200 pages later, on December 29, 2007 (two days before he surprised me--really, I didn't see it coming--with a proposal). 2 1/2 months does not seem like a long time, but I did write 200 pages about falling in love with Sam, so I guess something was going on there, hmm?
It started like this:
"It's almost frightening to start another notebook with an inconclusive story. I guess that's the magic in every page of this, the story of my life, in that I will never know the end until the end, and I believe there isn't one. This is one great exercise in the practice of eternity [isn't that a good line?--I wrote that! Wild!], a true never-ending story with characters who come and go--only a few stay and stay for a while, and you never know when or why or how or to whom anything will happen.
"It's a rainy Saturday and the last person I looked in the eye was Sam Lambson. We stood in the rain in the courtyard, I had just driven us home from filling up the car after the intermural soccer game. He was all wet in his blue sweatshirt and dark gray shorts, and I just learned he weighs 250 pounds . . .
"I am in every way intrigued by him--he is so multifaceted, as most people are I guess, but to understand him the way I try to understand myself is as appealing an endeavor. I left you with a cliffhanger last time: Newsflash! WHAT WILL BECOME OF LIZ AND SAM LAMBSON? And so we continue with this tale."
Yes, what will become of Liz and Sam Lambson? "Little did I know" then, but we would get married. And little do I know now what will become of us still. I can only imagine. And that, I think, is why it is so satisfying to savor every part of the story, this never-ending story. I guess that's the magic in every page of this, the story of our lives, in that we will never know the end until the end, and I believe there isn't one.
And, yes, finally! They're here! There is good in the world! There is hope for mankind! Faith in humanity! It's a celebration!
---~~~~~~~~~~~---
Well, anyway, I picked up Walden today. Walden; or, Life in the Woods. As a stranger in California, I could identify with "life in the woods," I thought. I bought it for $2.50 last year and was going to give it to someone as a Christmas present, but I couldn't imagine myself reading it, nonetheless someone else who would be getting plenty of more entertaining and less taxing Christmas gifts. But as I started it, I pulled up a totally unexpected and refreshing image of Henry David, a strapping young (okay, he was in his 30s or something), argumentative, opinionated, and verbose fellow who starts Walden with so many extreme statements I was almost motivated to get off my bum and grab a highlighter.
I didn't grab a highlighter, I just stayed on my bum. But, expecting to drift off into an early afternoon nap, I found myself instead between staring at the ceiling and the back of my eyelids, rewinding my life until two years ago.
A lot happened in my undergraduate years at BYU--all five of them. I remembered today that I hadn't checked my full grade report from my last semester. I never saw my cumulative GPA. I graduated, and then I ran off and got married, and I hadn't taken a minute to think back on my years at BYU until just this morning--not just reflections on BYU, but on my life since I moved out. I'm kinda proud of the fact that I moved out at 17. It's just a smidge earlier than 18, but I never moved back home, not even for a summer. The next five years were full of the greatest, most life-altering adventures.
I rewound and pressed play about 2 years ago. April, 2006. That year I moved, like, seven times. I finished a year at the house on Briar with Lara Ackerman. I moved my things into storage. I went to the UK for a month. I came back and lived two weeks in a shabby house we called "the Ark." I moved into Spanish house for the summer. I moved in the fall to a basement apartment where I was alone with only the dead maggots all over the ceiling and no keys to the door. I quickly moved out and into a cute apartment on 9th, only I had no roommates for the first month, so I was lonely and sad and stressed. I arranged to move out at Christmas and live with my good friend Maggie Bennett, Jaclyn, and Maria.
There were like saviors--we ate brownies and danced in our bedrooms and I watched them watch Gilmore Girls (I didn't proactively watch or understand it). And after that semester (W'07) I visited Colorado for a week and moved into Hampstead Court #4 with Angel and Brittany Kirkham, and Megan Stubbs. We spent the summer there and moved upstairs in Fall '07 to #15, and that's when Sam got back from Seattle and came into the picture.
We ran away together this summer, off to California. But one thing I learned from that year of moving 7 times (7?) is that moving doesn't allow you to escape yourself. I do believe it can mark a new start, it can help in the process of clearing one's slate, but in the end, you're still you, the conglomerate of a million stories.
When we ran away to California, I believed in the prospect that our married life would replace and eliminate (like a very powerful pesticide) all that went before. But as I rewound today and meditated on some of the events and people and experiences that led up to the day I met Sam (which I can't quite identify--he was around, and later, he was AROUND, if you know what I mean), it was all surprisingly continuous.
I tend to think of events as islands. But as I tried to reconstruct the past two years chronologically, I was totally baffled by the reality of ALL of those things happening in such small windows of time. For example, I think of the apartment on 9th as an experience island. There was my bunk bed, the smell of mildewy wood, dust, and fresh paint, decorations on the walls, and the rough noodly carpet. But while I was living there I was simultaneously taking classes, working as the editor of Eagle's Eye magazine, recording Red and Yellow, attempting to write the beginnings of a YA novel, going to concerts and parties and dances, NOT dating (I think there was one uneventful date that didn't pique my interest around Christmastime), addressing health problems, maintaining my vehicle, looking for a new place to live, getting to know the eventual new roommates from Tenessee, playing in Orchestra at Temple Square and running in my heels and concert black hoping to catch the 6:30 bus on Sunday mornings to Salt Lake . . . .
Isn't it exhausting? But the refreshing part of remembering all of this is that I remembered that I existed then in the same way that I exist now. I don't know if that makes any sense. But when we got married I thought it was my duty to put all of my past behind me. Sam and I are the new life--there is a new togetherness that doesn't allow for the existance of the old, single Liz Rhodes. However: bull! Sam fell in love with Liz Rhodes. She is very much a part of who I still am, with all her ruddy faults and redeeming qualities.
I think when we came to California I may have wiped my slate too clean. I graduated and swept BYU under the rug. My old job, my classes and habits as a student. Utah even, with the mountains, the trees, the snow. I actively forgot them. Colorado, my hometown too. I thought none of it was pertinant to my life now. I forgot about the friends I spent 5 years making at school. I isolated myself to experiencing the laundry and dishes, reading about how to find meaning and comfort in these repetative activities. I don't always find then that satisfying. I'm no saint in that respect. I'm just learning, ever learning what my roles are, and who I am.
I hope to know by the time I'm 24. I know that's a lofty expectation, to look forward to growing up by age 24, but I don't think it's all that unrealistic [okay, maybe it is]. I actually read an article today in my neighbor's copy of BYU Magazine (which is probably what got me thinking about the past five years), and I was so intrigued by an article called "In-Between-Ness: How to help your emerging adult through an extended post-adolescence" by M. Sue Bergin.
"Most men and women ages 18 to 25 do not consider themselves adults, and neither do their parents. They are, rather, 'emerging adults,' says Larry J. Nelson . . .
"About a decade ago researchers identified the emerging-adult idea and found that this age group no longer believes tradional milestones mark entrance into adulthood, such as marriage, parenthood, and home ownership. Rather, says Nelson, they believe that adulthood is reached with 'internal markers--developing greater concern for others, accepting responsibility for the consequences of your actions, gaining financial independence.'"
Isn't that fascinating? The article also talks about how baby-boomer parents don't identify with the more recent emerging adult. I thought about my dad asking me to get my own cell phone plan, and how now that I'm married and all the Rhodes children have graduated, he assumed we would all do our own thing for Christmas this year. Who wants to bother with dear old Dad, I think he said. I was almost taken aback in shock. No Christmas as a family? I thought now, with the marriage, what better time could there be to celebrate family and get us all together again?
But maybe the marriage was more like a last hurrah for youth, a denouement, a quinceanera. Was it my official presentation to the public as an adult? My "debut into society"?
Hello world! May I note that I am still young, usually confused, and still in the process of learning what my roles are as a college graduate and wife! It is a thrilling adventure, let me assure you.
After all of this, I concluded my morning of meditation by pulling out the composition notebook dedicated entirely to my courtship with Sam. It's the journal I started on October 13, 2007 (the day after our official first date), and concluded, 200 pages later, on December 29, 2007 (two days before he surprised me--really, I didn't see it coming--with a proposal). 2 1/2 months does not seem like a long time, but I did write 200 pages about falling in love with Sam, so I guess something was going on there, hmm?
It started like this:
"It's almost frightening to start another notebook with an inconclusive story. I guess that's the magic in every page of this, the story of my life, in that I will never know the end until the end, and I believe there isn't one. This is one great exercise in the practice of eternity [isn't that a good line?--I wrote that! Wild!], a true never-ending story with characters who come and go--only a few stay and stay for a while, and you never know when or why or how or to whom anything will happen.
"It's a rainy Saturday and the last person I looked in the eye was Sam Lambson. We stood in the rain in the courtyard, I had just driven us home from filling up the car after the intermural soccer game. He was all wet in his blue sweatshirt and dark gray shorts, and I just learned he weighs 250 pounds . . .
"I am in every way intrigued by him--he is so multifaceted, as most people are I guess, but to understand him the way I try to understand myself is as appealing an endeavor. I left you with a cliffhanger last time: Newsflash! WHAT WILL BECOME OF LIZ AND SAM LAMBSON? And so we continue with this tale."
~~~
Yes, what will become of Liz and Sam Lambson? "Little did I know" then, but we would get married. And little do I know now what will become of us still. I can only imagine. And that, I think, is why it is so satisfying to savor every part of the story, this never-ending story. I guess that's the magic in every page of this, the story of our lives, in that we will never know the end until the end, and I believe there isn't one.
I Can't Believe It!
Guess what! The day has finally arrived! I've been waiting for this day, like, all my life! Wonder Years is on DVD!!!! Can you believe it? I don't even know what to do with myself! It's a brand new day!
Friday, August 1, 2008
Lake Powell: The Family Vacation without Sam
Everyone.
The Powell Obsession, tucked away in the canyon.
My first time driving a jet ski (!!!!!!)
Quincy, the Little Mermaid
Erin, the Yoga Sunset Goddess
Making waves.
Sleeping on the top deck.
Sarah and Daniel at breakfast.
Lambson family photo.
Me and Ma-Cheri.
Antelope Canyon. (Look familiar?)
I have a lot to say about Lake Powell, so . . . well, I mean, you can just see, right? Okay, okay. Every summer Sam's family meets with three other families for a week out on Lake Powell. Four of the five Lambson children would not be present (including Sam, who had to work :P ewwww), and I was invited to come. Can we say heaven? I loved it! I'm still in a haze. Maybe I should write about this later. All I can say is that my previous entry entitled "Black People Don't Swim" was thoroughly put under question.
Favorite moments:
all of the above - the speed boat breaks down after dark - Liz flies off the Death Biscuit and loses her swim bottoms in the water (maybe not a favorite moment) - hiking the canyons - cool dips _x per day - Scrabble, reading, sketching on the boat - attempting to wakeboard (couldn't get up!) - a multitude of shooting stars - guitar on the water - everyone dives off the boat [but me] - isolation with the population = new friends! Yay!!! - the cross country drive with Jamie - I am even browner than before . . . .
Let's do it again!
Chaperones at the Church Dance
Dancing regulation: there must be room for a Bible between our bodies. Or at least a sheet of paper.
I am still in limbo. Young and full of undanced dance moves.
Am I not in high school anymore?
Sam and I were chaperones at a 14-18 church dance last weekend. Sam was the bouncer. He went up to the kids making out and said, "Cool it, guys." But the problem was, I think everyone thought we were in high school. I don't know what happened, but I couldn't remember for the life of me that I had just finished five years of university education.
As I was wandering around, a sophomore girl named Quincy approached me and said, "Do you not have a group to dance with? Do you want to come dance with us?" Isn't that the sweetest thing? I awkwardly explained that I was actually a chaperone there with my husband, but I did end up joining them to dance for a while.I am still in limbo. Young and full of undanced dance moves.
Am I not in high school anymore?
Missing Person: Has anyone seen Alan?
I've started reading Joan Didian's The Year of Magical Thinking, a memoir she wrote after the death of her husband, and in reading it, I just caught myself thinking about my friend Alan Taylor, who passed away last November, just after Thanksgiving and just before Christmas, which can be a very blue time, or a really pleasant time, depending on how things go for you.
I'm thinking about this passage Joan quoted from Bereavement: Reactions, Consequences, and Care, saying, "Subjectively, survivors may feel like they are wrapped in a cocoon or blanket; to others, they may look as though they are holding up well. Because the reality of death has not yet penetrated awareness, survivors can appear to be quite accepting of the loss."
I was thinking about Alan and I ask myself if I ever accepted the fact that he's not here, exactly. He's the only friend of mine that's ever passed on, and heck, I even organized the memorial in Provo for him, but I was frantically worrying about scrambled eggs and sausage for the guests, and the adrenaline kept me from memorializing very much. I was and still am holding up very well.
I posted his favorite albums on the blog just expecting he'd pull it up and look at it and comment or add an album or two. I still mention him regularly--"Oh, Alan loved Madonna," or, "Alan and I talked about that once," and "Oh, that reminds me of Alan. He made me drive him all the way across town just for a bag of shirts off Craig's List."
We weren't the best of friends, but I remember feeling terribly when we were on the phone--I was on a bus, on tour with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, and he was telling me how I was one of his best friends, and he couldn't talk about certain things with just anyone, and I said he'd make it through, and he gave me that half-hearted, "Yeah." It will get better. But I felt bad because I wasn't one of his best friends from my point of view. He was always the one to call me first.
I was baffled then and continue to be baffled when the subject of death comes up in a Sunday school lesson and everyone starts crying, and I don't. Or when it was announced in orchestra and everyone was sniffling up a storm, and I thought, hey, what are you all crying about. You're not the ones who got a call that morning after your writing class, and you're not the ones who just talked to his mother and got the details, you weren't the ones who had dinner with him at three a.m. at Village Inn four years ago, you're not the ones who went to his apartment to drop off dinner for his roommate, you didn't just go through that box of letters he wrote from his mission, you weren't the one people were going to to find out what happened, so what are you sniffling about, you have nothing to miss. I wonder if everyone experiences real tragedy at least once in their lives. Have I? Have there been greater tragedies than a friend's decision that wasn't mine to make? Is that why it doesn't bother me?
I still don't miss him, not really. Like I think he's still living. I just assume, sure, he still likes Madonna, and I can go to Village Inn anytime even if he's not around. He's off doing his own thing, we just don't talk as frequently these days. I don't envision a big step between this life and the next--he's still doing whatever he would do when he wasn't within my sight. He'll probably read this and comment on it, I'm sure.
I just wonder, is it going to soak in someday. Will I ever really mourn the fact, or will it always seem like just an unusual week, an interruption that passed by as soon as everyone forgot about what happened.
I'm not sure.
But he crosses my mind now and then.
I'm thinking about this passage Joan quoted from Bereavement: Reactions, Consequences, and Care, saying, "Subjectively, survivors may feel like they are wrapped in a cocoon or blanket; to others, they may look as though they are holding up well. Because the reality of death has not yet penetrated awareness, survivors can appear to be quite accepting of the loss."
I was thinking about Alan and I ask myself if I ever accepted the fact that he's not here, exactly. He's the only friend of mine that's ever passed on, and heck, I even organized the memorial in Provo for him, but I was frantically worrying about scrambled eggs and sausage for the guests, and the adrenaline kept me from memorializing very much. I was and still am holding up very well.
I posted his favorite albums on the blog just expecting he'd pull it up and look at it and comment or add an album or two. I still mention him regularly--"Oh, Alan loved Madonna," or, "Alan and I talked about that once," and "Oh, that reminds me of Alan. He made me drive him all the way across town just for a bag of shirts off Craig's List."
We weren't the best of friends, but I remember feeling terribly when we were on the phone--I was on a bus, on tour with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, and he was telling me how I was one of his best friends, and he couldn't talk about certain things with just anyone, and I said he'd make it through, and he gave me that half-hearted, "Yeah." It will get better. But I felt bad because I wasn't one of his best friends from my point of view. He was always the one to call me first.
I was baffled then and continue to be baffled when the subject of death comes up in a Sunday school lesson and everyone starts crying, and I don't. Or when it was announced in orchestra and everyone was sniffling up a storm, and I thought, hey, what are you all crying about. You're not the ones who got a call that morning after your writing class, and you're not the ones who just talked to his mother and got the details, you weren't the ones who had dinner with him at three a.m. at Village Inn four years ago, you're not the ones who went to his apartment to drop off dinner for his roommate, you didn't just go through that box of letters he wrote from his mission, you weren't the one people were going to to find out what happened, so what are you sniffling about, you have nothing to miss. I wonder if everyone experiences real tragedy at least once in their lives. Have I? Have there been greater tragedies than a friend's decision that wasn't mine to make? Is that why it doesn't bother me?
I still don't miss him, not really. Like I think he's still living. I just assume, sure, he still likes Madonna, and I can go to Village Inn anytime even if he's not around. He's off doing his own thing, we just don't talk as frequently these days. I don't envision a big step between this life and the next--he's still doing whatever he would do when he wasn't within my sight. He'll probably read this and comment on it, I'm sure.
I just wonder, is it going to soak in someday. Will I ever really mourn the fact, or will it always seem like just an unusual week, an interruption that passed by as soon as everyone forgot about what happened.
I'm not sure.
But he crosses my mind now and then.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)