Skin

Your skin is your first emissary.

This week, mine's been throwing a fit. No facial cleanser or magic system or scrub helps much when it decides to be ornery.

I have only ever been teased once in my life. It was at the beginning of the sixth grade. My best friend, who lived literally across the street from me and who I'd spent two years with, suddenly loathed me, starting the new year, for a reason I didn't understand. I was outside at recess one afternoon when she, her "boyfriend", and a group of their friends walked by. "What happened to your face?" her guy said. "Last year it was all clear and this year it's exploding and disgusting." They laughed. My ex-friend didn't, but she stood by.

I drink 100 oz of water and exercise two or three hours a day. My skin is my first emissary, but right now it's not saying any of that. Times like these make me feel like that eleven year old again.

Simmer until thickened

Today my professor told us of the eight year old girl of one of her neighboring families. The family had gone to the temple to be sealed, a very important LDS ordinance, or ritual. The little girl, however, spent the sealing asking loudly, 'Where is He?' 'Is He coming now?' She wanted to know when she was going to see God, who she had come to see in what she understood is called His House.

You could say she missed the point. And you could say she didn't.

When my teacher asked us if we have had similar experiences, a girl raised her hand and said,

'Well, the opposite... but I often have spiritual experiences while I'm cooking. Thinking about where the different ingredients come from, and their quality, and how they got to me, and what food means to us. It touches me.'

And I loved that. And it made me want to cry.

There is no one way of knowing or feeling, and they are almost never the ways we expect or prepare for.

Counterfeit

Another weird dream last night. Someone should interpret them for me.

---

Zoom in and pan the little city where I'm living. It's not Provo, but all the Provoians, all my friends, are there. It's almost like a neat, tidy, generated Sim city (don't judge me). I am deciding where my garden should go when I find out my friends are going to a movie. I want to go with them so I head toward the theater--Salt Palace-esque and huge, with balconies like a conference center or the ship from the movie Poseidon. There are people milling around, looking over the banisters, trying to distract me. I creep into the back of many rooms but cannot find my friends. I suddenly get a feeling that I should leave because there's going to be a fire or a bomb.

I'm riding my bike across town, through roundy rounds, and realize there's a car not necessarily following me, but definitely taking the same path. I enter a laundromat and there are high walls of washers and everything is blue. I watch the clothes going around and walk slowly, aimlessly, to see if the person, who got out of the car and also came in, is following me. He is and he isn't.

I ride on to what seems to be a bank. The parking lot is damp and overhung with trees and a hill on one side. The fiance of this guy is there. I am looking at the double front doors from the inside (made of glass, tinted, and huge) when suddenly, in walks boyf. He is wearing a deliver guy uniform. We meet as we're both opening a door, and we stare at each other. I wonder where his missionary tag is, but I'm so excited that I say, "have you come home early to me?!", and he eyes me, confused. I jump and hug around his neck and he's still confused but doesn't protest. It seems like he's trying to remember/realize who I am, but it still feels natural and like we belong together. We hold hands and start walking, slowly circling, inside the bank. I somehow understand he's not the same boyf I sent off on a mission, but I don't care.

I start to realize that the fiance outside is his. I think, how unfortunate, but she should have known we are each other's. I feel overwhelmingly excited that he is with me, and that it means he will meet my parents soon. I rehearse several times, "mom, I have a surprise for you!", but decide I want it to be a true surprise, so I don't call her. We are sitting in close seats, kind of like at the DMV, and there are tons of people around. Some of them I know and love, and they are excited to see us together. A friend things ended poorly with comes up to me and whispers in my ear, "how happy."

Boyf needs to finish his job, so we head outside. We help another couple move their couch into the back of the truck. The truck has weird casing and compartments around it, and paneling that they fold up to the ceiling that matches the wood paneling of the wall to create a faux-wall. Boyf asks me to drive one of the two cars. It's about to rain, but we finish and pull out of the parking garage.

I'm in bed cuddling my pillows and outside snow is falling

I know the days I should be silent because they are the days I have a hundred bottled up things to say. I ramble blog posts and delete them, write on loose leaf and throw it away, and lose sleep wondering why we're allowed or not allowed to say certain things, why it's better to keep things to ourselves and why those who don't are often rewarded. This is the only thing I ever lose sleep over. I'm getting to the breaking point of not having around my companion who understands me.

Which is worse: having an overactive mind or an overactive bladder?

I wonder if I will ever tell everyone what I really think.

(No.)

Face-Face, Part II

There is this thing called the messianic future.

This isn't a Christian dialogue, and not necessarily even a religious one. This is Derrida's idea; he was a Jew who argued for faith without religion. This is not to say that individuals shouldn't pursue their individual religions, if desired, and adhere to, love, and be obedient to them; rather, he saw that if a unifying idea doesn't become common among all people everywhere, and if people don't look outside the fellow members of their own religions, we will only continue in the destruction the recent generations have seen. The idea he proposed to unify us is the messianic future.

Derrida points not to The Christian Messiah, but the messianic principle and idea. There are messianic figures in many religions, and even in secular ideas, and their purposes are the same: to come and bring justice in the future. A messianic future is an absolute future: justice will come. If you believe that justice will come, you act in faith in it. This faith, Derrida says, is "lying at the root of our most everyday practices," or, as Joseph Smith taught in Lectures on Faith, the most basic force in life--we get out of bed, eat, study, speak, all because we have faith that a specific result will happen. Even when we sit down in a chair we have never sat in, we sit in faith that it will hold us up. The key to a messianic future, however, is that is never actually come, it has never actually "arrived," in totality. This is confusing; don't we want justice to come? Don't we hope for it? If justice is the object of a messianic future, isn't that the goal?

Derrida is emphatic that having an idea of what the messiah will look like, or when "he" will arrive, is not the point. If anyone asks, "will there ever be total, unconditional justice in the world?", the answer is invariably no. The point is not the telos, or the end "goal" or purpose. The point is that a messianic future places the responsibility in the individual. As long as that messianic arrival hasn't happened yet, every believer can ask, "are you coming?", and continue his preparation for it (what the LDS community calls a "probationary state.") And any person who truly hopes for and is preparing for a just future will act according, in faith: he will seek out his "other", will care for him, will right the wrongs of the world on an individual basis, face to face, one a time. That individual relationship and care is what he calls "the gift": the gift is giving another the future, it is hospitality, it is spreading goodness.

I think the end of this article says it best:

"Come, Come" is not said with your lips alone; what is required is "the efforts of men, virtue, their repentance." The messianic is a call that is whispered in my ear to begin now, today, working for justice, without delay, even though justice is always to come. The Messiah may, if he chooses, answer this impertinent question by saying, "Today." The messianic commands us not to wait--to bring about justice today, to change our lives today....
"When will you come?"
"Today."

"Today" because we can change our lives, change the way we treat others, today. If we do this, the messianic justice, whichever one we believe in, and the greatest one--a person caring for another person--is here today.

This is an important, even most important, idea to me. It's nonexclusive, immediate, it's powerful. For me, it makes the most daunting tasks seem doable.

The strangeness of the dream

Last night I had this dream of my wedding, and I'm remembering how weird it was as I get ready for bed again. Boyf has told me he never dreams of people he knows, and never of anything he has been thinking a lot of, with marked but few exceptions. (He is also the lucid dreamer between the two of us.) I am the exact opposite. Dreams are fascinating.

---

I am waiting around nervously. I am alone. Boyf is not there, and I feel anxious that he hasn't arrived yet. I'm moving steadily through fields toward a church house--Idaho. There are no streets or buildings at all besides the church, but the fields are distinct and sprawl beyond the eye's limit. My dress is odd, but I understand it is indeed my wedding dress. I come in proximity of the church and stand watching it for a long time, but nothing moves. Family starts arriving behind me--the green windstar is there--and everyone starts bustling around the gypsy camp. I suddenly realize, dread coming over me, that I do not have garments. I did not get them in time, or forgot. My family realizes this and is sorrowful, but one of my grandfathers agrees to interview me right then so we can get them in time, that same day. I look down and realize that TOM is with me, and I groan.

It's later in the day. The family, eight or so people, is sitting around a table in another field near the same church, which is still in view a way off. The scene is mad hatter- or The Village-esque. We are having a humble meal, but are talking very quietly, smiling, and everyone seems content. I realize Boyf's parents are missing, and I lean over to ask him about it, concerned, but he gives me that smile he gives when he doesn't want you to worry. I wonder why they haven't arrived yet, and watch the people around the table.

Face-Face, Part I

In yoga last week the instructor came around and put a drop of lavender oil on our foreheads while we were in savasana.

The yogis believe that chronic pain is created by unsettled emotional trauma. I have never suffered chronic pain, and don't pretend to have any place to judge if that's true or not, but I am drawn to the idea. Postmodernism esteems an unparalleled idea of the body. The body often shows the plagues of this world: colonization, gender issues, hierarchy, so forth. People have always warred, but the twentieth century is the only one to see not one but two world wars, as well as others that have followed and remain unresolved. With all our empirical knowledge and all our organized religion, our destruction has only escalated; these codes and institutions have failed the world as they are in the world. And it shows on bodies, and the effects remain therein, irreversible.

There is an idea that I love; it is that the most important thing we can do is look into the face of our other, or anyone who is different from us (essentially, everyone). On their faces are the signs of their well-being, or lack thereof, which cannot be ignored. Are they crying? Emaciated? Solitary? Talking? If everyone did all they could to care for, respect, fulfill the bodies of others, give to them rituals, give to them health and space, then the emotional, spiritual, and mental woes of the world would also be tended.

Pain exists only in the mind.

Last night, as I quieted and set my things in order for thsi morning and got into bed, I smelled lavender once more, for no reason, so strong and sweetly.

And you are mine

If I tell you I've read a book, but you open it and see no writing, I have lied to you.

Or Socializin

The sign above the employee restroom couches
At work we anonymously award "pickles" between co-workers for jobs well done. (The phrase is from the customer service training BYU uses; I'll let the link do the explaining.)

I've both given and received pickles, but there are things I wish I could say that pickles don't quite cover. Quarter sheets of paper with pickles on them that say things like,

"You were nice to me when I was having the worst day, but no one knew it"

"You continue to talk to me even though sometimes I'm short with you"

"You always uplift me",

somehow they just don't quite do it. Co-workers have always meant a lot to me. At Helaman we were almost like a family, complete with 2am Denny's runs and seasonal reunions. Where I work now, it's not much different; I've been blessed to know amazing people. They have a huge impact in my life and I don't know how I could ever appreciate all they do for me.

Remember that one time I decided I was worth some new threads?

Last Saturday was an incredibly beautiful, warm day. I walked the miles to the mall (unbelievably relaxing) and wandered and looked, then headed home with clothes in tow. I earned them. I earned them. Monetarily, physically. That feeling is one of the best in the world.

It's tempting to be a peacock, hoping people will look at you and see your clothes. But it's so much more rewarding to hope that people will look at your clothes and see you.

Secret, safe

My favorite part of my day is a fifty yard stretch of the walk back from the gym. There are high tennis courts on one side, and a steep hill on the other. Together they insulate the sidewalk from the world, and the silence is immense. It's the quietest, and most important, place in my world. It's where I say goodnight to my days.

Tonight I walked it in the rain, exhausted, emotional, and at peace.

Peeing in front of the primary

I have no idea how this post-it note came to be in the front cover of my book, or how long it's been there, but I don't plan on ever removing it.

My heart is full--some things

I love who I am becoming. I feel like everything is going to be okay, and that it's going to be a beautiful life.

Listening to Norah Jones makes me cry. I always listen to her while I paint.

I only feel closer to him after two years. In his last letter, he told me that I "smell like cloves when you want out for an adventure" and that "sometimes I see your soul in your eyes, others I see mine." He was always it. I love him.

I am so grateful to the girls who have helped me change my life and get into shape. They have been sisters and coaches to me, and they inspire me. We may or may not keep in contact, but they will always be a huge part of me.

I don't know what I would do without Jenny or Ernest.

I have faith in the good in the world because I know I can create it. Looking someone in the eye, looking there for what they need, and helping them or giving them a kind word--at work, in class, wherever--is a sacred experience to me.

Today is a beautiful day.

My first book in Spanish

Ceaseless searching

This is the moment that I found that one line I NEEDED to make my paper shine, even though on the outset I had no idea where it was or who'd written it, hoping it was buried in one of my stacks. It's also why no writing, researching person should ever throw away any document or book.

"Irresistibly, little shapes, voices, accidents--the angle at which the sun in the morning fell on the pillow--become parts of the grain chain wherewith we are bound." William Pater.

The thrill of the hunt and the sweetest joy of finding you, little quote, is the reason I'm an English major.

Things I'm going to do

(post script: i should clarify. delete my facebook someday.)

Love Day

Grateful for friends


Handmade happiness
Thinking of and writing to Rachel


The only label I will wear. Appropriately pink (or, "pomegranate") for V day. Several zumba classes later--dance all night!

Grammar exercises

My name is Megan and I like to eat. My friends and I often meet at Slab Pizza. When I eat pizza, I feel happy. Eating pizza is best at night because then I can go to sleep with that happiness, the happiness of pizza.

Muck

Gossips know no bound. The oasis that BYU once was is now often a mud puddle. I can't wait to move on in life.

People look at you differently when they've talked about you: out of the corners of their eyes and only for a moment. People that don't even know you.

That we may all

Today I received some postcard love from Germany and sent some to Tawain.

I know that sending postcards doesn't radically connect me with the sender or receiver. I know it doesn't end hunger or help educate or necessarily ease burdens. But I think it does fulfill one basic human need: to know that, at least for a moment, someone out there was thinking exactly of you and hoping to make you smile.

So far I've sent or received postcards from Thailand, Netherlands, Russia, Belarus, Poland, China, Lithuania, and other places. People I never would have had contact with, never would have known there names. Now they have a little piece of me and I of them, and that is magical to me.

The upcoming Valentine's Day is, I think, the first one I have truly looked forward to. I've been genuinely excited about it for a week now. And while I joke about the chocolate I ordered and plan to spend the day at home pondering and relaxing, I really mean for it to be a special, personal, uplifting experience.

I am all set, thanks to More Love Letters, to spend Valentine's evening writing a series of letters to a woman named Rachel. Anyone can go on the site and submit a request for love letters for their loved ones who are suffering, feeling alone, feeling in need of some care. I suspect that most of the time their loved ones don't even know a request has been sent, or that a bundle of thoughts is coming. Rachel lives in Australia and recently lost her husband after a three year battle with cancer. She is a mother and a teacher and is pressing on. My thoughts and hearts have been filled for her.

If any of you would like to contribute a letter to send to Rachel, I would be happy to come by next Mon, Tue, or Wed and pick them up from your house and take care of postage. (Or, if you're anywhere outside of Provo, let me know via comment, email, or message and I can give you directions on where to send it--only basic US postage required. It will be bundled with my letters by the coordinators before going on to Rachel.) It can be simple. It can be personal. It can be something that inspires you. It can be two lines and anonymous. It can be anything.


All these little things are coming to mean so much to me.

Fountains

The day I got my tax refund, I was giddy. Money in the bank. A cushion. A rainy day fund. Something generally not afforded college students.

Two nights later I had this dream. I was in one of the rooms on one of the highest floors of the Bellagio, looking out the window over the fountains at night. I was contemplating and smiling about whether I wanted to book another night there or go somewhere else.

And with that, anyone could know what makes me feel carefree, where my mind is at right now, and exactly what the nature of my independence-lust is.

Pancakes

Once upon a time, I was making a profile picture for this event. I did it at work, and apparently forgot to erase the photoshop files, because when I came in today this was the desktop wallpaper:


Whoever it is that keeps putting these hilarious things as the wallpaper, you are my best friend.

Treasures

The best gallery stroll yet started tonight with a stop at the Covey where we listened to the artist talk ("It's, wait for it... wait for it... chaos.") before making our way upstairs where we ate finger sandwiches and looked at leather art while a little boy screamed and roared in the men's bathroom and everyone looked around awkwardly to see who would go in.

On our way went into this antiques store (Iron Horse antiques) (surprisingly open at 8pm) after debating on the doorstep about going in for a full minute. One of the best finds in Provo yet. And listening to the owner get so excited about his match collection, and explaining how buying estates works, was the gem of the evening. Seriously, you need to go there. He also showed us where the makeshift gallery was for a cubano artist and that they are currently working on expanding back and having a seating alcove where he'll display his old bicycle collection. I plan in making boyf stalk the store with me until we can see it finished.

We visited the new studio, Innovations, where we colored with chalk on their chalkboard walls, adding to the scribbles and doodles of all who'd been there before.

Then we visited my favorite, the unnamed artist's studios next to the old Los Hermanos location, home to simple exhibits and works in progress. It is my most inspiring place in Provo. (Pictures to come next month, for real, I will not slack anymore.)

We saw these people dancing in the seats of their parked SUV and we busted some moves and danced with them a moment.

Lastly we visited the old Albertsons building the university bought and turned into a book binding / letter pressing / storage center--no big deal--where Jessica indeed takes book binding. It was wonderful, legit, and inspiring.

Now I should go to bed and let my muscles sleep, but I just want to music.

My purchase of the night, vintage playing cards:

Cocoon

I can feel everything slowly turning to muscle. So slowly, painfully.

Feels so good.

Easy to persuade