Stray Junior Mint | My life in metaphor

Posted on January 7, 2016July 14, 2016 by jsmith

Here comes the sun.

I’ve felt a little scruffy this brand new year. The snow and ice sit-in was fun at first, but by Monday night I was ready to put the kids in a sled and push it—gently, mind you—down the nearest hillside just to get five minutes (or five hours) alone in the house.

See, much as I love(ish) winter break, I do not think it was intended to last as long as the Flood. I’ve gained a whole new respect for Noah’s wife, trapped in that stuffy boat with crabby kids and cluttered quarters, because after two and half weeks of in-home partying (read: house trashing), we ended the Big Laze with cancelled church, cancelled school, delayed school, delayed school, and delayed school again. It was a dream for the kids. FOR THE KIDS.

Cancelled school is a dream for the kids. FOR THE KIDS.

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And speaking of the kids, and the house, and the kids-in-the-house-for-three-weeks-straight: the Christmas Bomb seems to keep exploding in said house, on a twelve- to twenty-four hour rotation, even though the Big Day was over two weeks ago. I’ve done nothing but bend over and pick things up since Thanksgiving, but the gifts just keep on giving. Like a pebble tossed in a lake, each new gadget creates its own ripple effect of chaos, culminating in a three-foot radius of Crap circling every side. The tree may be down, but the piles still stand high.

Come on, mom. You know about The Piles.

I’m wading daily through piles of clothes–new ones with tags stuffed beneath old ones needing washed (really kids, why separate them?), piles of baked goods (stale and grody, but we’re not picky), and piles and piles of papers–important gift receipts, important gift cards, important thank-you card lists because I swear I’m gonna write thank-you cards this year, all buried beneath crumpled grocery lists and scribbled-on post-it notes: return gifts! use gift cards! write thank you cards!

And then there’s The Wrap: gift wrap, bubble wrap, cellophane wrap, plastic wrap–they’ve all nested, mated, and are breeding with vigor in my home. Just yesterday I bent over (again) to retrieve what appeared to be a cross breed of gift/plastic wrap: it was red-colored Saran, brought in special for the holidays. Ethan had wound yards of the stuff around a sock snowman he’d made for his sister, apparently hopeful that, though the red is transparent, the sheer volume applied would mask the poor creature’s identity til the moment of unveiling. (It didn’t work, but sister played along valiantly.)

But oppressive as they may be, The Piles and The Wrap are nothing compared to The Blankets. Tell me, oh sisters-in-post-holiday-suffering: what’s with the blankets? They. are. everywhere. Slung over the back of the couch, hanging off the side of the chairs, dripping down the seats of my car, wadded in the corners of the family room, spread over the entire living room floor, flat and wrinkled and on purpose, as though we are an Afghan family preparing for Ramadan instead of an American family cleaning up after Christmas.

Wait. Did I use the word family next to cleaning? Oh, that’s richer than the stale apple pie coagulating in my kitchen.

What I meant to say is that I am a mother cleaning up after her family’s Christmas. They’re still having fun, and I’m still bending over. (And I’ll bet you three lamb kabobs that Afghan mothers are doing the same two weeks after Ramadan. And if the cross of motherhood is no respecter of nations, you can bet they’re not happy about it either.)

So last night, despite my anticipation (dread) of another late morning, I set my alarm for six a.m., determined to get my own self, at least, back on some kind of sleeping/waking/eating cycle that doesn’t mimic that of a frat boy. And when the alarm chimed this morning, I’m proud to say that I got out of bed a mere forty-minutes later.

I stumbled downstairs and crawled on the stairmaster, ready(ish) to take on the new year. My feet plodded slowly (who made these pedals so heavy?) as I surveyed the nine blankets rumpled across the floor, looking as groggy and grumpy as I felt. I knew that restoring my pre-holiday habits would eventually feel good, but right then it just felt bad. And hard. And kinda depressing—probably because it felt so bad and hard.

Fifteen minutes in, I almost quit. Because, I thought (while hyperventilating), would one more day of frat boy life really doom me in the end? I was just about to hit the cancel button when I looked up out the window and happened upon this:

(photo courtesy of Derrick P. Smith, aka the Hub)

A sunrise. And with it, just moments after this picture was taken, the sun.

The sun. And everything that hot, melty, pink-orange-red perfect sun implied: that something good was about to happen. That things were going to change. That the dark, the cold, the chaos, The Piles, the stifling hibernation of winter–none of it was permanent; it was not our new reality. The sun told me that one day—not too far off—the snow and the mess and the sugar-crabbed, housebound kids would be a memory and we’d be looking forward to the light, fresh-air, happy days of spring.

I finished my workout and, before any of my lazy kids got up to start another lazy day, took a lazy moment myself to sit on the (blanketed) floor, look out the window, and stare at the sun.

We’re gonna get through this winter, moms, I know we are. Know how I know? Because today, the sun said so.

Posted on October 11, 2015July 14, 2016 by jsmith

It’s that moment when you’re asked to be an early morning Seminary teacher…

At first you think, “Wow. I must be pretty sharp. They asked me to teach early morning Seminary.”

Then, through an unintentional but utterly reliable grapevine, you start to suspect that you were second, or third, or maybe even fourth choice for this assignment. “Wow,” you think. “I must be pretty nice. I’m the only one who will say yes.”

Then you spend ninety-seven hours the week before school starts (because they didn’t ask you until the week before school starts) doing online training, reading manuals, and replying to a dizzying onslaught of emails regarding attendance policies, tardy policies, reading policies, credit policies, classroom policies, and a bunch of other policies that sound superduper important but will just have to wait until you figure out where Habakkuk can be found in the Old Testament (between Nahum and Zephanian, thankyouverymuch) because that is what you will be teaching this year: the Old Testament. And then you think “Wow. I must be pretty gullible. I just agreed to teach the Old Testament.”

In just ninety-seven hours, you went from sharp to nice to gullible. But, whatev: you still have to teach the Old Testament—to a classroom of teenagers, at six a.m., Monday through Friday.

At six a.m., Monday through Friday.

Wait…did I already tell you that last part? No matter. It bears repeating. That, and the part about the Old Testament.

My land. I haven’t read the Old Testament since I took it as a religious class at BYU–and when I say “read,” of course I mean “skimmed.” (I was twenty and single. As if.) And now here I am, standing at a podium in a classroom every morning while it’s still dark out, pretending that I:

a) know the Old Testament,

b) understand the Old Testament, and

c) can explain the Old Testament to these eager young minds. (Wait, did I say “eager?” As if.)

And on top of this sorry charade, I am also trying to make the Old Testament interesting! and fun! to a classroom of teenagers—at six a.m., Monday through Friday. It’s been, um, challenging. It’s been, um, hard. It’s been, um–okay fine–patently impossible. Because they see right through me, I know they do.

They may not say it, but I can sense the suspicion, the contempt, the secret-sleep-trick-where-you-shield-your-eyes-with-your-hands-and-look-down-like-you’re-reading-but-I-know-you-are-sleeping-because-I-invented-this-trick-in-my-tenth-grade-oceanography-class. I can feel the eyerolls and silent yawns when I turn my back to write Bilbah on the chalkboard. Oh, they smile politely and laugh when cued, but these kids are smart and they know a fraud when they see one. I should run and hide in shame, but instead I keep showing up and talking, just a little more loudly, morning after morning. I pretend not to know that they know I’m a fake. And they pretend not to know that I know that they know. Thanks to the collective sleep deprivation, it all works out.

But in spite of all this, I will tell you a secret that, after much speculation over many issues for many years, finally secures my place as a Nerd among Nerds:

I love it.

I love it.

I LOVE IT!

Wait…did I already tell you that last part? No matter. It bears repeating. Because this is the most fun, fascinating, fulfilling thing that I’ve tackled since I had children of my own and, truth be told, I’m a lot less tired and cranky now than I was back then. (Waking at five is nothing when you’ve been allowed to sleep the night before. My little ingrates never gave me that luxury.)

And here’s another secret: teenagers are great people—great people. As in, fabulous. At least, the ones who take early morning seminary are. Because really, what kind of kid signs up to go to church for an hour before school every day? The fabulous kind, that’s what.

Teaching is fun, and teenagers are fun, and the Old Testament is fun (really) and so at six a.m., Monday through Friday, I immerse myself in a Trifecta of Fun. A Funfecta. And I love it.

Here’s a secret: teenagers are great people. As in, fabulous.

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My only regret is that I’ve had no time to write, as all of my reading/writing/laptop time has been consumed with Noah and his terribly naughty neighbors. But when I start to feel pained for my forgotten pen, I ask myself: what are my unexpressed thoughts compared to those of a woman who morphs into a lump of salt? Talk about being rendered speechless. Worse things could happen to me than a neglected blog, so I’m trying not to worry about it—to everything there is a season, et al. (Not to show off, but that’s fresh from Ecclesiastes, which is found between Proverbs and the Song of Solomon. I’m just saying is all.)

And though I do miss the writing, what I really miss is you. Very much. I’ve never been into social media (my blog is more of a writing outlet), but since we’ve moved, I understand people’s need for it. I understand my new need for it, because it makes me feel less alone in this brave new world of changed town, changed house, changed people, changed church work. All good changes, but changes nonetheless. And you—you are my happy and familiar place to come back to, always always always. I hope you don’t mind.

So I will write when I can, and I hope you will write when you can. And I’ll try not write too much about a man scuba diving in a whale’s gut or a nasty band of brothers going postal over a striped coat, but I can’t make any promises. Art imitates life, you know, and right now, the whale and the coat–and a whole lotta other craziness between Genesis and Malachi, at six a.m., Monday through Friday–is my life. And I love it.

Posted on August 9, 2015August 2, 2016 by jsmith

A case for loneliness

Do you remember the scene in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory when Mr. Wonka is showing the children his “lickable wallpaper?” He points out each row of colorful fruit, excitedly explaining that oranges taste like oranges, strawberries taste like strawberries, and “snozzberries taste like snozzberries!” His voice is giddy with the revelation.

Veruca Salt then replies, snotty as ever, “Snozzberries? Who ever heard of a snozzberry?”

At this, Mr. Wonka cups her cheeks and then quietly delivers my favorite line of the movie—of any movie, really. “We are the music makers,” he tells her, “and we are the dreamers of dreams.”

We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams.

Come on. Does it get any better than that? I don’t think Mr. Wonka was necessarily talking about music here. But I do think he was talking about dreams.

The line is actually the first of a poem, “Ode” by English poet Arthur O’Shaughnessy:

We are the music makers,

And we are the dreamers of dreams,

Wandering by lone sea-breakers,

And sitting by desolate streams;—

World-losers and world-forsakers,

On whom the pale moon gleams:

Yet we are the movers and shakers

Of the world for ever, it seems.

This poem, like all good poems, makes me a little sad. Maybe it’s because along with music and dreams come words like lone and desolate; alongside maker and dreamer, we have loser and forsaker. Maybe it’s because the movers and shakers soak up the pale moon, not the warm sun. Or maybe it’s that despite all that loneliness—because of all that loneliness—they are the ones who, in the end, change the world.

Loneliness seems a terrible reward for changing the world. But it has always been required for that particular feat, hasn’t it? Maybe that’s the saddest truth of all.

Loneliness is only ever romantic in hindsight, when it’s endured long ago by someone else. For the lonely here and now, it is empty and silent and shameful. And unlike other human woes, loneliness gains no sympathy from its onlookers. How could it? The dreaded mark of loneliness is that it’s suffered alone.

But sometimes, I think, loneliness is on to something. When we feel disconnected from the crowd and withdraw into ourselves—even (hopefully) for a short time—our mind may just be doing some different, deeper work that can only be done during the long days of Lonely.

When do you do your best thinking? Your best dreaming? Your best music-making, problem-solving, relationship-repairing work? When you’re lonely. Not just alone, but lonely. Those ideas start percolating long before they’re put to paper and pen, days and weeks and months before that problem finds its solution. Those ideas start to swell, bubble by tiny bubble, when we surrender to the sentence of loneliness.

Creativity, in its myriad forms, requires more than physical solitude every now and then because creativity can’t be called forth like a dog in the occasionally idle hour. Creativity requires the ability—the learned skill—of detaching our minds from the peripheral buzz to explore the silent and sumptuous life of the imagination. Unearthing it takes time and patience and yes, loneliness. Because when we are lonely we are sadder but softer, quiet but curious, mournful but malleable. When we are lonely, we listen.

Creativity starts to swell, bubble by tiny bubble, when we surrender to loneliness.

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Maybe to make the music, we must sit by the desolate stream. Maybe to move the world, we must forsake what we once thought it was. Questions that wilt under a bright sun can blossom under a pale moon. Loneliness takes us there to answer them.

So if you are lonely, if you feel different, if you sense a gut-twisting gulf between yourself and Everybody Else, take heart, my world-forsaking friend. You are simply wandering for a bit—as we all must wander for a bit—along that lone sea breaker, while your might and mind conspire to change the current of the world and the canvas of your world. And change it you will, because you are the music maker. And you, the dreamer of dreams.