An old man stopped to ponder one day
Where an old familiar path fell in his way
He stood still in his tracks
And tried to glance back
"Where am I now and how did I get here
Am I very far or still quite near?"
But the paths he took and roads he trod
Were faint and covered over with sod.
He traveled without shoes, money, or pack
And think of the strangers he’d see heading back
He pressed onward without a clear map in hand
And made his way through an uncharted land
He couldn’t quite see all the places he’d been
Nor the future trails he'd blaze within.
For it didn’t matter the length his feet traveled,
Rather the distance his mind and heart had unraveled.
And while exploring the great, vast world around
Inside his heart was the real discovery found
For not all men are lost who wander and seeketh
Sometimes we are here because the Lord speaketh.
Explore all we want of the world outside,
there’s still much to understand of ourselves inside
Proverbs 3:5-6
Friday, January 29, 2010
Friday, January 8, 2010
flying
I flew South for the summer.
I flew high above the ground, the trees, the mountains, the ocean
The world a rush of air beneath my wings,
Until my wings wouldn’t beat anymore
And the ground caught up to me
I’ve tried to forget what it was like to fall,
Without forgetting what it was like to fly.
I’m flying again
My wings stretch out and ride the wind
I join up with another flock of birds
Then break away and fly higher
I soar higher and higher breaking through the heavens
I flew with an angel once
And I’ll fly with one again
International Cinema: A dash of cultural spice
Sometimes I look at my hands and try to interpret some kind of story. If my hands could speak what would they say?
Several weeks ago I watched this sign language film-Sweet Nothing in My Ear-a story told about hands and through hands.
Here is my critique and things I learned about sign language culture and myself. (I decided to post this entry just like it is as a bunch of my thoughts, unedited for the most part, with additional commentary and alternate words because I feel there are lots of different interpretations and viewpoints to be found as well as directions to be taken):
-I didn't like that the couple was going to separate because they couldn't agree on their son's future (things were resolved in the end)-Personally I hope to love God more than anything else and then my wife. I look forward to being a husband and father.
-I liked that in order to communicate they had to go to the other, get their attention and communicate face-to-face (instead of yelling across the room).
-It is another culture. I felt drawn to it as I saw life through their eyes/ears. I wanted right then to try and sign and communicate in the same way...but I can't. (Same thing happened up in Salt Lake when I was taking a picture for a group whose native language wasn't English. I heard them speaking in their language and in response to their "thank you" I blurted out some gibberish genuinely meaning to say you're welcome. I just wanted to talk to them in their language)
-I don't like how deaf and dumb is (or was) used to describe this condition. Dumb has come to mean lack of intelligence, not knowing what to say vs. keeping silent and not being able to speak. I had to actively erase this connotation from my thoughts. Deaf people may be mute but they are not dumb.
-I learned a couple of cool signs: 1) "sorry"-rubbing your fist across your chest/heart; 2) "best friend"-linking of fore fingers back and forth; 3) I don't know what the word is for this last one but the kid was shaking his open hand in front of his open mouth like he was showing his grill.
-The power in hands to sign and communicate; to feel music, sound, vibration, emotion; to express love and understanding clasped in or gently touching another hand.
-The irony of hands being considered a disability in communicating but at the same time being an instrument to lift and uplift others higher.
-I'm reminded of my short, chubby fingers and my calloused hands that have worked and created and the potential they still have.
I feel resolved to use my hands and to continue to find within them many different stories.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Memoir of Grandma Hassell
Saturday November 14, 2009
Carrie Helyn Bounds Hassell (January 12, 1919-November 4, 2009)
Just a few memories from that day that I want to remember:
It was the day of the funeral service, there were some interesting family characters that really stood out with their afro-size hair that had enough hairspray to destroy half the ozone, their faces a colorful palette of makeup and bright lipstick, you know, the kind that's just looking to vandalize clean cheeks. Not to forget their over-sized jewelry, that would put the British Crown Jewels and any rapper to shame, to go along with their 1920s fur.
Grandpa Hassell was looking sharp in his black suit with matching bow tie and ivy cap (similar to the one I have that I call my Pablo Neruda hat). Going up to give him a hug, thinking I would be comforting him he tells me, “this is a good time.” I knew what he meant and admired how even during moments such as this when he lost his companion and needed comforting he was comforting others and staying optimistic.
Grandma Hassell-
She was a Southern girl, born in Louisiana on a plantation of cotton and corn. Her parents had sweet names like Stephen Solomon and Lola. Her family came under persecution after joining The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and eventually they had to move. They moved various times, always moving to where the work was. Things she was remembered for were her work ethic, testimony of the gospel, long life of service, and serendipitous sense of humor. Like the time the family was driving up to the lake on an old dirt road. She always had precious curls and in order to keep the dust from the road out of her hair she had reached back and grabbed a pair of underwear, which she fitted over her head and wore the rest of the way. She was also a great artist and the home that Grandpa built himself was adorned with her paintings both inside and out. Grandpa said of his wife of nearly 60 years, “she’s the joy of my life. She stayed solid.”
And just as she moved around as a little girl and again as a young mother to be where the work was, she has moved on again, completing her life's work and going to where there is more work to be done
Carrie Helyn Bounds Hassell (January 12, 1919-November 4, 2009)
Just a few memories from that day that I want to remember:
It was the day of the funeral service, there were some interesting family characters that really stood out with their afro-size hair that had enough hairspray to destroy half the ozone, their faces a colorful palette of makeup and bright lipstick, you know, the kind that's just looking to vandalize clean cheeks. Not to forget their over-sized jewelry, that would put the British Crown Jewels and any rapper to shame, to go along with their 1920s fur.
Grandpa Hassell was looking sharp in his black suit with matching bow tie and ivy cap (similar to the one I have that I call my Pablo Neruda hat). Going up to give him a hug, thinking I would be comforting him he tells me, “this is a good time.” I knew what he meant and admired how even during moments such as this when he lost his companion and needed comforting he was comforting others and staying optimistic.
Grandma Hassell-
She was a Southern girl, born in Louisiana on a plantation of cotton and corn. Her parents had sweet names like Stephen Solomon and Lola. Her family came under persecution after joining The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and eventually they had to move. They moved various times, always moving to where the work was. Things she was remembered for were her work ethic, testimony of the gospel, long life of service, and serendipitous sense of humor. Like the time the family was driving up to the lake on an old dirt road. She always had precious curls and in order to keep the dust from the road out of her hair she had reached back and grabbed a pair of underwear, which she fitted over her head and wore the rest of the way. She was also a great artist and the home that Grandpa built himself was adorned with her paintings both inside and out. Grandpa said of his wife of nearly 60 years, “she’s the joy of my life. She stayed solid.”
And just as she moved around as a little girl and again as a young mother to be where the work was, she has moved on again, completing her life's work and going to where there is more work to be done
Monday, November 23, 2009
El mundo
From a recent, yet not so recent reading of the novel El mundo by Juan José Millas:
An autobiography by the adult author through the perspective of his childhood. He is an inventor of sentences, characters, and stories, his father an inventor of instruments-in particular an electric scalpel capable of creating a wound and healing it at the same time as the blood vessels cauterize. While his father’s instrument was a medical scalpel, Juan Jose’s was the pen.
The blade of the pen, comfortable in the writer’s hand, carefully separates the woven strands of plant fiber with each stroke, each letter, each sentence, opening a small wound in the paper’s flesh, while simultaneously healing, healing the mind’s frustrations, healing the soul’s longings, healing the aches of the heart. Some are still fresh as my ink bleeds from the paper. I am writing my own autobiography.
(Many of these are older entries recently posted. Soon what I wrote will catch up to life, and life will catch up to what I write)
An autobiography by the adult author through the perspective of his childhood. He is an inventor of sentences, characters, and stories, his father an inventor of instruments-in particular an electric scalpel capable of creating a wound and healing it at the same time as the blood vessels cauterize. While his father’s instrument was a medical scalpel, Juan Jose’s was the pen.
The blade of the pen, comfortable in the writer’s hand, carefully separates the woven strands of plant fiber with each stroke, each letter, each sentence, opening a small wound in the paper’s flesh, while simultaneously healing, healing the mind’s frustrations, healing the soul’s longings, healing the aches of the heart. Some are still fresh as my ink bleeds from the paper. I am writing my own autobiography.
(Many of these are older entries recently posted. Soon what I wrote will catch up to life, and life will catch up to what I write)
The rains came down and the floods went up...
...but the house on the rock stood still.
03/30/08
A thought I had today:
These last couple of days have been cold and stormy, with unsuspected snow. But the snow will melt. The storm, though bitterly cold, will pass and the water gathering will bring and nourish new life.
Last week (09/30/09), the unexpected storms returned.
The sky’s rainy eyes wept as the thunder-shook emotions followed the lightning’s chaotic path.
Probably a testament to the fact that God hears me--I said bring on the rain and...it came. The pounding rain has tried to break me, drown me, but instead it will fill my vessel and deepen my soul. Though storms will crumple the ocean’s surface, the Father of my earth and soul resounds: “Be still, and know that I am God.”
03/30/08
A thought I had today:
These last couple of days have been cold and stormy, with unsuspected snow. But the snow will melt. The storm, though bitterly cold, will pass and the water gathering will bring and nourish new life.
Last week (09/30/09), the unexpected storms returned.
The sky’s rainy eyes wept as the thunder-shook emotions followed the lightning’s chaotic path.
Probably a testament to the fact that God hears me--I said bring on the rain and...it came. The pounding rain has tried to break me, drown me, but instead it will fill my vessel and deepen my soul. Though storms will crumple the ocean’s surface, the Father of my earth and soul resounds: “Be still, and know that I am God.”
Friday, August 28, 2009
Perception
Watching raindrops fall on a tree breaking from their spherical mold. The tree, however, remains unbroken, not unchanged. It grows from the water that falls sometimes forcefully, other times gently onto its bark, seeking the roots. The reflection on the other-hand becomes increasingly muddled and broken as each drop pierces the water's surface and scatters the tree's virtual image.
Real faith as compared to virtual faith...every so often new (and old) challenges distill like dew and release themselves from the celestial heavens. Other times, they condensate and burst from our mortal atmosphere. Either way I am wet. I wonder and even worry a little...okay A LOT. Mostly about my future, which uncovers fossils of the past from which I evolved. Who I am and will become feels tied between the unsinkable buoy and the anchor beneath the waves of where I came from. Will I be better and greater than that? Will I have your strength?
I CAN
The limitations exist only in my mind, the possibilities are endless because the Atonement is infinite. As offspring of God, the seeds of greatness are already planted. So bring on the rain, welcome the storms, test my faith. With increasing confidence, I refuse to break.
Real faith as compared to virtual faith...every so often new (and old) challenges distill like dew and release themselves from the celestial heavens. Other times, they condensate and burst from our mortal atmosphere. Either way I am wet. I wonder and even worry a little...okay A LOT. Mostly about my future, which uncovers fossils of the past from which I evolved. Who I am and will become feels tied between the unsinkable buoy and the anchor beneath the waves of where I came from. Will I be better and greater than that? Will I have your strength?
I CAN
The limitations exist only in my mind, the possibilities are endless because the Atonement is infinite. As offspring of God, the seeds of greatness are already planted. So bring on the rain, welcome the storms, test my faith. With increasing confidence, I refuse to break.
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